Wasteland Kingdom
by thats-a-moray
Summary: After killing Melchiah and claiming the Soul Reaver, Raziel returns to his kingdom in search of answers only to find his path blocked by unexpected foes. Will Raziel discover the fate of his clan? And if he does, will he be able to face the truth?
1. Prologue

**THIS CHAPTER EDITED 3/25/13**

**AN: **Raziel spends the first third of SR1 trying to discover what happened to his clan. However, after his first battle with Kain he just sort of... gives up on that. This story is my attempt to give Raziel's search for his clan a proper conclusion.

I'm writing this prologue primarily for my friends at The Reviews Lounge, Too, most of whom are not familiar with this fandom, as a way to introduce them to the story. If you are familiar with SR1, feel free to skip this chapter. :)

I've made the artistic choice to borrow some elements from SR2 and Defiance. In this story, Raziel is able to draw the wraith blade at will as he could in later games. It also has the same appearance as the wraith blade in Defiance. These changes were made for purely cosmetic reasons. Aside from being summonable, the wraith blade behaves exactly as it did in SR1.

PS - Some of the dialogue in this chapter is quoted directly from the game because I'm describing a cut-scene. Much of it has been edited or moved around to improve the flow in a written format and to make it easier for newcomers to understand.

* * *

**Prologue**

A thin layer of dust had settled over the stone halls. The flags of the vampire clans, even the red flag of the Razelim, still hung from the walls, moldy and moth-bitten and the air itself smelled of decay, yet the braziers were all lit. Someone was home. Whoever occupied these walls clearly expected company, as evidenced by the two Dumahim guards Raziel dispatched in the courtyard. There was just one problem with that:

Raziel should be dead.

Indeed, Raziel was _dead._ He was at least twice as dead as he was when he was a vampire, his body devoured by the boiling waters of the Lake of the Dead, the soul ripped from his flesh and confined to a new, wretched physical form, more ghoul than vampire; a soul devouring wraith. Centuries had passed since his execution. No one should have bargained on him crawling out of the abyss. However, if someone did await him on the other side of this door, Raziel already knew who to expect. Raziel threw open the large double-doors and strode into the throne room.

And there he was in all his noxious glory: Kain, corrupted Guardian of Balance, the unrivaled Lord of Nosgoth, Raziel's maker and executioner. He languished on his granite throne at the base of the corrupted Pillar of Balance, claws loosely wrapped around his legendary sword, the Soul Reaver, balanced on its tip like a toy. His golden eyes regarded Raziel coldly, almost with boredom. "Raziel. The abyss has been unkind."

As Kain stood Raziel brazenly approached the throne. He had suffered horrors far greater than what Kain could do to him now. Oblivion would be a release compared to the defiled, blue cadaver his soul now inhabited; but first he had a score to settle. Raziel answered with biting sarcasm, _"I am _your_ creation, Kain - now, as before. You criticize your own work." _He spoke through his cowl, the sound of his voice issuing from the place where his throat and mouth rested before his execution._  
_

Kain was unmoved. "What I have made, I can also destroy, _child."_

Raziel was livid. He had come here for two purposes. First, to settle a score. He only restrained from attacking Kain because he needed him alive to accomplish his second goal. His disembodied voice shook with emotion. _"I have been to the ruins of _my_ city, Kain. What have you done with my clan, degenerate!? You had no right - this act of genocide is unconscionable!"_

Never before had he spoken to his maker with such insubordination. To criticize Kain was to invite death. Even Raziel, the eldest and once-favorite of Kain's vampire children, was not immune. An uneasy pause followed.

"Conscience...?" Kain said thoughtfully, as if he did not quite understand the meaning of that word. A flame came into his eyes, the first evidence of emotion Raziel had seen since his execution. He advanced on Raziel, fangs bared, carrying the Soul Reaver menacingly. "You dare speak to me of conscience!? Only when you have felt the full gravity of choice should you dare question my judgment! To know that the fate of the world hangs dependent on the advisedness of my every deed; can you even begin to conceive what action you would take in my position?"

Raziel's eyes were gone. In their place, white orbs of spectral energy narrowed and brightened harshly. _"I would choose integrity, Kain."_

Studying him, a wicked smirk crept across Kain's pale face. He chuckled. Raziel stepped back, shocked. Kain shrugged.

"I thought I taught you better, Raziel. See what has become of our empire." He gestured at the Sanctuary's decaying throne, the nine corrupted Pillars. "The destruction is even greater beyond the Sanctuary, as you no doubt discovered while you scoured the clans for me. Cast aside your foolish ideals. This place has outlasted its usefulness..." Kain altered his stance, gripping the Soul Reaver in both hands, "as have you."

Raziel took two steps back and spread his claws. Spectral blue fire issued from his eye sockets. He had no choice but to come unarmed, leaving him at a tremendous disadvantage against Kain's legendary long-sword. However, he was not without hope, for he had made an ally in the Underworld. This god-like creature, which he called his Benefactor, had promised him revenge.

Kain lunged first. The Soul Reaver let out a shriek as it sliced through the air. According to Kain's tales, the blade was possessed by a soul devouring entity. Raziel had seen it in battle before. The Soul Reaver tore the flesh from its adversaries like a wild beast as it reaped their souls. He did not want to be hit by it.

But Raziel was quick, leaping out of the Soul Reaver's path without a scratch. Vile though it was, there were advantages to his new body: he was faster, lighter, and never tired, unless his material form became too damaged to maintain in this realm. Even then he only needed to return to the Spectral Realm of the dead to recover his strength. Only the Soul Reaver could destroy him now.

There was another advantage Raziel possessed besides physical prowess and the assurances of his Benefactor. Kain had trained him personally. They had fought side by side during Kain's war of conquest. Predicting his maker's moves, Raziel weaved around his strikes, seeking an opening. He had a plan. In his arrogance, Kain left his chest unprotected, the scar from his human death plainly visible in the center of his chest, an ancient scar. If he could get in close he could use his strength and claws to tear the heart from Kain's body - and then his soul.

Flanking him, Raziel raised his claws. Kain spun around and a blinding light blotted out Raziel's vision as pain shorted whatever remained of his nervous system. At first he thought he had been hit by the Soul Reaver. As his body struck the ground - still painfully aware of his surroundings in the Material Realm - he realized that he had been struck by one of Kain's energy bolts, a simple elemental spell involving electricity. And Kain was laughing at him.

After all the suffering his maker had inflicted upon him, after he had disregarded a thousand years of loyal service on a jealous whim, Kain _dared_ to mock his pain!? Rage coursed through him as he leapt to his feet and charged. Electricity jumped from Kain's claws, an enormous grin spread across his vile face.

This time Kain's energy bolt discharged harmlessly on the Sanctuary floor and red blood burst over Raziel's claws. Kain staggered backward, covering his face as blood dripped from his chin. Raziel froze, momentarily stunned by what he had done. His gleaming eyes fell to Kain's exposed front. Now was the time!

As he leapt at Kain a mysterious force caught him mid-flight and held him prone. The gashes over Kain's face had healed but the blood remained and seeped into the wrinkles of his twisted visage. With a telekenetic push from Kain, Raziel felt himself hurl through the air. His spine, protected by neither flesh nor muscle, slammed into the corrupted Balance Pillar with enough force to fracture bone and his ruined body tumbled over Kain's throne and onto the floor, paralyzed in agony.

The first thing Raziel saw as he struggled to his knees was Kain's boot planted in front of his face. He craned his aching head as Kain raised the Soul Reaver to strike. Instinctively Raziel curled into a ball and shut his eyes. This would not protect him - it was all that he could do.

An explosion of light and sound shook the walls of the Sanctuary and rocked Raziel to the core of his soul. As the Soul Reaver shattered a fragment of the blade sliced through his corporeal form like paper and sprayed the floor with green ectoplasm. Weakened from combat, he felt his material form start to dissolve, pulling his spirit back to the Spectral Realm as the Sanctuary of the Clans distorted around him.

"The blade is vanquished," whispered a voice. Raziel realized it belonged to Kain. "So it unfolds... and we are a step closer to our destinies."

(~ And then, Kain was gone. Raziel slowly opened his eyes and lifted his head. In the Spectral Realm the Sanctuary was bathed in ghostly hues of green and blue. Material creatures, such as Kain, were invisible here and Raziel was beyond their reach. But all vampires had a limited ability to manifest in the Spectral Realm. Raziel braced himself, but something distracted him. Standing in Kain's place, Raziel saw the undulating, ghostly after-image of a sword.

He picked himself up slowly, still weak from the encounter with his maker, and cautiously approached the spectral blade. This sword resembled the Soul Reaver, which had been suddenly and dramatically destroyed when Kain tried to strike him down. Not long ago he would have thought such an event impossible. Was this another of Kain's deceptions? What game was he playing now?

The Soul Reaver was the oldest, most powerful weapon in Nosgoth, feared among the vampire clans. Ordinary weapons fell through Raziel's grasp when he slipped into the Spectral Realm, but if some part of the Soul Reaver manifested here then perhaps... perhaps _he_ could use it. Raziel stiffened with resolve. The moment his hand touched the handle he felt as if a thousand nails were being driven into his arm. He staggered back, unable to let go of the blade, clenching his arm in agony as the sword fused to him.

No sooner had the pain subsided than a strange spirit emerged from behind the Pillars. Raziel straightened uneasily and tightened his grip on the opaque Soul Reaver; despite being little more than air and light, it felt solid. Since it weighed nothing he found that he was able to wield it with one hand.

The specter spoke: "What are you, little soul? Another of Kain's creatures, come to taunt this bound specter?"

_"I did not intend to disturb your rest,"_ he growled suspiciously. The dead did not usually converse with him, their natural predator. Her lack of fear disturbed him.

"Rest...?" said the spirit in bitter jest. "A body is needed for sleep... Flesh and bones are required to recline. No, child, all I may do is watch, and remember, ceaselessly conscious as this wretched world's history unfurls. Ghastly past, insufferable future. Are they one and the same? Am I always here?"

His aggressive posture deflated. He sensed no hostility from this spirit. As she drifted nearer he saw that they shared the humiliating disfigurements of death. Half of the spirit's face had been ripped away as if by a ferocious beast, exposing the skull beneath and rendering even her undefiled-half grotesque, although she could still be called beautiful in comparison to him. While he sympathized with her condition he reacted to her lamentations with irritation. What did she know of suffering?

_"Who are you? How have you come to haunt these Pillars?"_ he demanded.

The spirit gestured toward the nine Pillars of Nosgoth around which Kain built his throne room and and the Sanctuary of the Clans; the meeting place of his lieutenants; the place where Raziel had been damned. The Pillars had fallen into ruin long before his time. Their blackened stone trunks leaned like storm-felled trees. "Kain refused the sacrifice. The Pillar of Balance, corrupted to its core, stands as a monument to his blind ambition. Now these pillars serve only to bind me here - my prison and eternal home, thanks to the avarice of your master, Kain..."

Must they all speak in riddles? What he wouldn't trade for a simple conversation. Even so, with these clues it did not take him long to discern her identity.

So this was the spirit of the former Balance Guardian, Ariel, the last uncorrupted member of the Circle of Nine. Centuries before his vampiric awakening, the Pillars of Nosgoth had served to protect and sustain the land. The Guardian of Balance, represented by the central pillar, was the most important of these, the fulcrum of all of Nosgoth's magic. Nearly two thousand years ago, Ariel's spirit instructed the current Balance Guardian, the then-fledgling vampire Kain, to cleanse the Pillars by killing all the corrupted Guardians - including himself. It was this final sacrifice that Kain refused. Raziel knew this story well. It was the genesis of Kain's empire.

Offended by Ariel's observation, Raziel growled, "_That bastard can claim no allegiance from me..."_

This, apparently, pleased the deceased Balance Guardian. Her raspy voice brightened, "Then we share a common foe, Raziel!"

He flinched in surprise. She knew his name? Had she been watching him before his execution? That could mean... _"So you do know who I am! Do you know of my clan as well?"  
_

To this, Ariel only replied, "Kain must die to restore the Pillars. Only then will my spirit be free. I will offer you whatever knowledge I can that will speed his destruction."

Raziel narrowed his eyes. He retorted callously,_ "I will finish him in due time, but Kain is not my only concern. I must know what became of my clan. I have a responsibility. If any of them are still alive -"_

"You have a greater responsibility! With that sword, you are the only creature in Nosgoth capable of killing Kain." Ariel's one eye fixed him with a disapproving gaze.

_"And so I shall. But I think I will do it without you."_ Raziel glared.

The former Balance Guardian sighed. She crossed her arms over her chest, her head slightly bowed, almost in acceptance. Still, a shadow of grief creased her human features. For centuries she had been shackled here, unable to escape Kain, her jailer and tormenter. At this moment Raziel felt a twinge of pity, but it did nothing to alter his resolve. "Very well... Return here when you have need."

As Ariel vanished into the Pillars, Raziel's gaze turned toward the strange weapon he now bore. Waves of green fox-fire flowed across the translucent blade like water washing over glass. Rather than flowing from the sword itself, the fox-fire emanated from his upper arm and corkscrewed over the hilt and down the length of the blade to its tip, bathing both his arm and the weapon in an eerie glow, connecting them like an umbilical cord. He gazed at the swirling energy, transfixed.

Suddenly, he heard the booming voice of his Benefactor in his mind: BY DESTROYING THE SWORD, YOU HAVE LIBERATED IT FROM ITS CORPOREAL PRISON AND RESTORED IT TO ITS TRUE FORM: A WRAITH BLADE, ITS ENERGY UNBOUND. FROM THIS MOMENT AND EVER AFTERWARD, YOU AND THIS BLADE ARE INEXTRICABLY BOUND. SOUL REAVER AND REAVER OF SOULS; YOUR DESTINIES ARE INTERTWINED.

The voice of his Benefactor did not startle him as it once had. Nevertheless, he found Its tendency to respond to his private thoughts unsettling. Even more unsettling was his Benefactor's insistence that _he _- Raziel - was the cause of the Soul Reaver's destruction. No one had stood against the Soul Reaver and lived. Not that Raziel could be called _alive_, being little more than spectral energy wrapped in a flimsy shell of matter. As the nature of the Soul Reaver was that of a soul devouring weapon, he should not have been able to withstand it.

But he did not expect his Benefactor to provide him with answers. It never had. It resurrected him, gave him power, fed him scraps of information when It desired, and provided him with guidance in a world altered by time and corrupted by Kain's dark influence. Their alliance was one of convenience. His Benefactor wanted Kain and his vampiric brood dead; Raziel wanted revenge. He harbored no delusions of friendship toward this Thing.

Through trial and error Raziel discovered that he could discard the wraith blade by concentrating. At first it required enormous effort to pry his claws from the hilt, causing the wraith blade to shrink and vanish, but he imagined that in time drawing and discarding the blade would come naturally.

Even when it disappeared he was not totally rid of it. He felt its presence always, like a ghost on his shoulder eternally watching him. This would have disturbed him if not for his Benefactor doing just the same. He was growing far too accustomed to the voices in his head, he thought. ~)

Having recovered from his ordeal, Raziel used one of the conduits his Benefactor provided for him to shift back to the Material Realm. As his spirit gathered its shell of matter the blue and green of the Spectral Realm faded and the Sanctuary returned to its usual state. In this realm the wraith blade changed from ethereal green to a shimmering blue. To his surprise, he found that Kain had already fled the throne room. His blood was still on the ground. Raziel glared at his leavings.

Despite this small victory, his master had eluded his first attempt at vengeance. If nothing else, he had hoped to learn the fate of his clan, whether any of them remained alive, but Kain and even Ariel denied him. He felt humiliated, abused and trifled with like a rebellious human slave. Was he not still Kain's first born son? At the very least, did he not deserve to have his questions answered with pellucidity rather than riddles?

Outside the Sanctuary of the Clans, he once again heard his Benefactor speak.

YOUR BROTHER ZEPHON'S KEEP LIES FAR TO THE EAST, BEYOND THE RUINS THAT GREETED YOUR FIRST EXIT FROM THE UNDERWORLD. HE AND HIS BROOD HAVE COCOONED THEMSELVES IN A DERELICT CATHEDRAL, HAVING MURDERED ITS HUMAN GUARDIANS. SEEK OUT ZEPHON'S LAIR, RAZIEL... ARMED WITH THE SOUL REAVER, YOU MAY GAIN ENTRY WHERE YOUR PATH WAS PREVIOUSLY BLOCKED.

Raziel turned his gaze toward the east but did not budge. He had already murdered his youngest brother, Melchiah, under his Benefactor's orders and felt no satisfaction. With Melchiah's death his self-loathing only increased. Neither had he surrendered any details about the fate of Raziel's clan. Would Zephon be any different?

His vengeance was not focused on satisfying a petty urge. He intended to do the honorable thing, to defeat his brothers and his maker in combat, taking an eye for an eye. But the need for revenge did not supersede the needs of his clan.

Instead, Raziel's gaze turned north west - the direction of his clan territory and the city of the Razielim. He then looked skyward toward the smothering yellow clouds. When no answer was forthcoming he made his misgivings more direct. _"You're an omniscient being. Answer my question and I will do as you command."_

Dark laughter filled his mind. YOU FLATTER YOURSELF, RAZIEL. VERY WELL. RETURN TO THE PLACE OF YOUR CLAN, THE PATH TO ANSWERS IS NOW OPEN TO YOU.

Raziel's shoulders drew up at the patronizing invitation. Of course he would have sought answers anyway, with or without Its permission. He headed westward.


	2. Loss and Gain

_Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,_  
_Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell_  
_And the profit and the loss._

_...A current under sea_  
_Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell_  
_He passed the stages of his age and youth_  
_Entering the whirlpool._

_...Gentile or Jew_  
_O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,_  
_Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you._  
- T. S. Elliot, The Wasteland IV. Death by Water

_It matters not how straight the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll.  
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul.  
_- William Henley, Invictus

**Loss and Gain**

_Nosgoth, 500 years earlier  
Three days before Raziel's execution_

At the edge of the cliff Raziel knelt down, gazing at the landscape below. His long, ebony bangs obscured his face from his two companions. Yellowed grass covered the landscape in patches and here and there a skeletal tree clung to life, barely surviving on what meager sunlight pierced the smoky veil of Nosgoth's skies.

"There's no one for miles, master," said Charon, his first-born. Raziel looked over his shoulder and smiled at him through black lips, his jasmine eyes alight.

Beside them, Warin kicked a pebble over the ledge. Raziel stood and looked at him in mild annoyance, the dull light throwing his angular features into sharp contrast. Unlike his younger brothers, who were blessed with the poorest portion of Kain's essence, Raziel retained much of his former handsomeness despite the centuries of change. "You've been quiet. What's bothering you?"

His stocky son hesitated. Warin and Charon were his eldest sons, high ranking members of the Razielim clan. Like Kain before him, Raziel raised them from the dead, giving them new life as his vampiric offspring. For nearly a thousand years they remained his most loyal and trusted servants. He took their judgement seriously even when it conflicted with his own. However, Warin was not disposed to giving criticism. "I don't much like heights."

"You better get used to them. We'll soon be entering the state of change ourselves," Charon chuckled, his bright turquoise eyes beaming with anticipation. Being his oldest children, Warin and Charon were always the first to evolve after their sire, thereby inheriting Raziel's latest dark gift. They usually entered the state of change a few weeks after their master. Until that time came to pass, they could only watch and wait.

By now each clan had acquired their own, unique gift: the Melchahim could pass through barriers in the Spectral Realm, the Zephonim could scale vertical walls with ease, Rahab's clan could resist the burning touch of water, Dumah's clan possessed immense physical strength, and Turel's clan wielded powerful telekinetic abilities. But Raziel's latest gift made him greater than them all.

The first-born son of Kain flexed his ivory wings. Freshly bathed in oil, they gleamed in the dim twilight. Warin stared at them disquietly. Having only just emerged from the state of change, Raziel's bat-like wings looked new and frail and frighteningly beautiful. Raziel knew what he was thinking. If he tumbled and fell from this height his wings could easily break when he hit the ground. "Warin, have you ever seen young hawks taking their first flight? They leap straight from the nest into the wind. I intend to do this properly."

Warin shrugged inoffensively. "Well... birds are born to fly. I'm not so sure about vampires."

"Janos Audron could," Charon pointed out.

The younger captain scoffed and shifted his feet. "Legends."

"And so can I," said Raziel seriously. "And when I go to the Sanctuary of the Clans to present my gift before Kain I want my brothers to look into my eyes and see that I have tasted the greatest freedom in the world. Things are about to get very interesting around here."

Warin gave a dry chuckle. "One can hope. The war games have been pitifully boring lately."

"Dreadfully," Charon agreed. For centuries the Razielim, Dumahim, and Turelim had been locked in inter-tribal war. On the surface the war's purpose was to determine which of Kain's three eldest sons was most deserving of his affection. With humans thoroughly domesticated, leaving Nosgoth completely under the vampires' control, and the sun's deadly rays tamed by smoke there was no need to battle over resources or territory.

Underneath at all, the war existed solely to provide entertainment for Kain and his dark brood. In spite of their vicious rivalry, Raziel did not consider his brothers enemies. This war was merely a chess game played with flesh. Though they reveled in bloody competition, a deep, unspoken affection bound Raziel to the other clans, a familial bond.

Uncomfortable with his own criticism, Warin bowed his head respectfully. "I wish to assure you, master, I speak only out of concern for your well being. I have complete confidence in your judgement..." He pressed his lips together. "However, if you need me, I will be here."

Raziel nodded to show it was alright. "Thank you, Warin. I know I can always count on you."

Giddy with excitement, Charon clasped Raziel's shoulder firmly. "I'm behind you. Show us the way."

His two eldest sons stepped back from the edge of the cliff. Warin folded his hands behind his back. Spreading his wings to their full length, Raziel tested the breeze and prepared to leap.

_Present Day_

Alone, Raziel traversed the bleak and jagged path to the Lake of the Dead and the old territory of his clan. Here and everywhere, the dry, cracked earth sustained only the hardiest of plant life. Silent, Raziel walked through Nosgoth's emptiness, his ruined wings rustling softly against his shoulder blades. The desolate land left him to his thoughts.

Centuries after his execution the agony of the abyss clung to his soul with hooks and barbs. Stripped of bone and muscle, his once proud wings hung loosely from his back, long flaps of semi-transparent flesh pockmarked with holes ravaged by the abyss. The savage waters carved out his abdominal cavity, leaving only a spine wrapped in muscle tissue and the empty bowl of his pelvis. They burned away his skin, revealing the bloodless, blue muscle beneath, and tore his jaw from his face. He hid his hideous appearance behind the tattered brown sash that bore his clan's symbol. Once hung from his pauldrons with pride, this sash did little to soften his repulsive form. If he knew how to manifest in a different form he would have chosen any but this.

These disfigurements were his punishment for surpassing Kain. What should he have done? Hide his new dark gift from his master? He had no control over his evolution. Rahab did not hide his gift, yet he too could do something Kain could not. Perhaps it was because Rahab was humbler than he. He may have been more apologetic when he demonstrated his gift to the clans. When Raziel unfurled his wings at the Sanctuary he acted with the same pride with which he displayed the symbol on his sash, and for that he was called 'heretic.' Raziel seethed with hatred for Kain's hypocrisy and the easy compliance with which his brothers Dumah and Turel bore him into the abyss. If pride was his crime then his clan could not have fared much better.

Pride was no sin to Raziel. Pride fortified his principals. Pride drove him to exceed himself. Pride endowed him with the resolve to lead. Pride was the strong foundation upon which he built his clan.

Raziel awoke to a world without pride. He recalled watching Melchiah's children shambling through the Necropolis, dragging along their rotten bodies as if they might fall to pieces. Even the Dumahim, lead by his most arrogant brother, now scuttled about like dogs and ravaged their victims with animal-like savagery. If Dumah's children were so debased, what hope remained for his clan?

The Razielim were nearly ten thousand strong at the time of his execution. Would he recognize them if he found them alive? He had not recognized Dumah's children until his Benefactor revealed their origins, did not even realize they were vampires. If any of his children survived the purge they would surely have developed wings by now. Perhaps that had been the key to their survival. He only hoped they had not devolved as far as the others.

A flock of crows scattered as he crossed their path. Their cries echoed through the stony pass, the only sound for miles. Raziel paused and tried to discern the direction they were heading.

He had seen crows many times since emerging from the abyss. They were the only living creatures he had seen since his awakening, apart from some insects, a few feral humans and vampire hunters (the latter came as a shock, for free-mankind was merely a memory before his execution). That any mortal creatures managed to survive in this dying world gave him hope that at least a few members of his clan found sanctuary somewhere. Whatever the case, his Benefactor seemed assured that he would find answers in his old clan territory. There was one thing he liked about his Benefactor: It did not often tell him what he wanted to know, but It never lied.

As the crows shrank into the distance, Raziel lingered momentarily in thought. About the days and hours leading up to his execution, he had no regrets, save one: flight. Even when he had muscles and bones with which to flap he only managed to cover short distances and never flew higher than whatever perch he leapt from, though perhaps that was because his wings were so young and he so inexperienced. Now finding a living member of his clan was the only way to know how well he could have flown given enough time; although, that question was not particularly important to him, merely a nagging in the back of his mind. He did not like to leave a project unfinished.

At least his wings still served some purpose. In this sense losing more than half his body mass to the abyss turned out beneficial; by holding onto their frayed edges he was able to catch the wind in his sails and glide for short distances. A graceful glider he was not... but he was improving.

Passing through a narrow canyon, Raziel once again arrived at the Lake of the Dead - the site of his execution. Far, far below these cliffs, the vicious waters swirled, crashing with the impact of massive waterfalls and billowing tons of vapor into the air. Despite the abundance of water few plants existed here. Brownish-green moss clung to the rocks far below. A rickety bridge extended to a central stone platform with a narrow cliff which hung over the lowest point of the lake, a watery vortex that spun like a hurricane, its turbulent forces fed by a multitude of waterfalls. It was into this singular, titanic whirlpool that Raziel was hurled to his death.

The bridge that once connected Razielim territory to the central platform was destroyed at some point after his execution. There was another way into his territory, blocked off by time and the elements. In order to reach his territory now, he needed to make a leap.

Although he made this leap twice before, each time he arrived at this ledge he hesitated for a couple of moments. It was not death he feared but re-living the senseless, blinding pain of the abyss. Only pride in himself and hatred for the bastard who condemned him to this ghoulish form pushed him forward, and it was because of pride that each time he came to the abyss he endeavored to hesitate a moment less. Grabbing hold of his wings, he took a running leap over the ledge and let the rising mist carry him across the break. It was only a small leap, farther than he could jump but not too far to glide. This time he managed to land on his feet.

But Raziel was in no mood for self-congratulation. With the abyss behind him, he quickly made his way into the cave towards familiar territory. Soon the uneven tunnel gave way to ancient tiled floors and chiseled walls decorated with braziers and carvings. Early in Kain's empire, before the smoke stacks, the clans used human slaves to carve out small cities within Nosgoth's mountains. Although adult vampires inherited Kain's tolerance of sunlight fledglings burst into flame if they came into contact with the sun's rays, so for a time building underground was a necessity. However, the grandest sections of Raziel's city lay beyond these tunnels, exposed beneath the boundless sky, which he once looked upon with wonder.

An admirer of the stars, Raziel constructed many star charts and drawings before Kain blotted out their light. If he could find his quarters they might still be there. From what little of his territory he had already explored, he surmised that the other clans must have sacked it after his execution. Surely they would have no interest in his star charts. They were useless now, mere reminders of the past.

Of course finding evidence of his clan's fate was his first priority. When he first passed through his clan's territory on the way to the Necropolis he found no signs of a struggle. Centuries after his execution he returned to find his territory vandalized and inhabited by wayward Dumahim. A trio of Razielim statues that once stood guard over the archway leading to the courtyard were now little more than rubble. Even the stairs to the gates were smashed. With the Dumahim now dead, the silence here was stifling.

"Caw, caw!"

Lifting his gaze, he spied crows nesting atop the arches. They must have been out foraging the first time he passed through here. The ethereal glow emanating from his eye sockets momentarily intensified. As he ascended the remaining stairs, he grumbled to himself, _"Overtaken by vermin..."_

Raziel entered the main square. From here he should have been able to access almost every part of his former city, but all but a few paths were sealed by debris. He searched the area. Nothing seemed to have changed. In his frustration he accused It, _"You said the path to answers is open to me."_

INDEED, YOU MERELY NEED TO LOOK FOR IT.

_"Are you playing games with me? While I search for answers you promised, Kain slips further from my grasp. You want him dead as much as I do but I_ will not _leave here without knowing what happened to my clan."_

THE SERVANT CANNOT BARGAIN WITH HIS MASTER. He could almost hear his Benefactor smirking. YOU WILL FIND THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK AND WHEN YOU DO, YOU WILL KNOW THAT I AM YOUR ONLY FRIEND.

Raziel tried to ignore Its chilling prediction. Melchiah said something similar before he killed him, though his youngest brother was a recluse and had not been of sound mind for centuries. Kain hinted at it as well. _What I have made, I can also destroy, child._ He shook his head defiantly. Damn Kain and all his brethren!

Something twitched out of the corner of his vision. He turned just in time to spot a mouse scampering down a storm drain. The muscles of his face visibly tensed at the sight of this filth in his home. When he ruled this territory he would have never allowed the streets to become so... wait...

The sewers! They ran beneath every part of his territory. If he could somehow access them he would be able to go anywhere he wanted. Kneeling over the storm drain, Raziel examined it and ran his claws over the grate. Raziel was blessed with a lithe build, more-so now than ever before, but this storm drain was too small for him and the grate refused to budge. There must be an alternative route somewhere. He could not recall seeing any access chambers on his way to the square. Perhaps there was another way.

He rose and summoned the wraith blade. The Spectral Realm resembled nothing of the peaceful afterlife dreamed about by ancient humanity. Having been forced to survive there fighting with his claws alone, he felt eager to have a suitable weapon at last.

(~ The Spectral Realm, the underworld, was the place of his rebirth. He could enter it at will. Only returning to the Material Realm, the world of the living, required effort. As his physical body melted away the square distorted like clay being reshaped by an unseen hand. Before him the grate leading to the sewers stretched and widened. Colors morphed, his surroundings cloaked in shades of blue, green, black and grey, and all around him the air filled with the whispers of departed souls. The storm drain was now accessible to him, thanks to the effects of the Spectral Realm and Melchiah's dark gift. However, Raziel had never passed through a grate at this angle before. When he walked through the iron gate at the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Clans he needed to push his way through the barrier like a thick sludge. To make matters worse, the grate had not expanded as much as he had hoped. He could make it through - but it would be a tight squeeze.

Keeping one hand on the wall, he stepped onto the grate and tried to push his right foot through. As his foot passed through the barrier it turned partially transparent outlined with a bright green glow. A strange sound accompanied his passage, sounding something like a whistle or a sigh but different from both. He braced himself against the wall as he almost lost his balance and cursed indignantly. There had to be a more dignified way to do this. He struggled for a few minutes, managing only to get one leg through the barrier. He would have to come at this from a different angle. Extracting himself from the barrier, he paused to glance over his shoulder. There were a few human souls avoiding him on the other side of the square. They might not notice what he was about to do but sadly Raziel was never without an audience of One.

Getting down on his hands and knees, Raziel pushed his arms through the grate, using the leverage to pull his head and shoulders through as well. When he was a third of the way through he reached for the solid portion of the wall and used it to drag the rest of his body through the grate. He landed inside the sewer, on his head, in a heap.

He rolled over onto his knees, sweeping his ruined wings out of his face with a snarl and adjusting his sash while studying his surroundings. Apparently he had fallen into some kind of narrow tube. Ahead of him a clear path led deeper into the sewer. He walked down the tunnel with excessive grace, bowing his head to pass below the narrow ceiling.

When he arrived at the other end he found himself standing in the sewer proper. The tunnel was about eight feet high and ten feet across. There appeared to be a little bit of water still flowing through these pipes. In the Spectral Realm water was but a shadow; it was of no threat to him. Raziel had no part in building or maintaining these sewers. Human slaves did all the grunt work. He had not designed them either. That task was left to one of his younger fledglings. In other words, he had no idea how to navigate down here.

While he gathered his bearings, his thoughts were interrupted by the distinctive cry of sluagh, the troll-like scavengers of the underworld. The souls Raziel devoured also fed his Benefactor, but souls consumed by sluagh were simply destroyed, never to return to Its Wheel of Fate. Raziel enjoyed killing them.

The cries seemed to be coming from the direction he intended to travel. He pried his claws loose from the wraith blade and bid it to vanish. Its light would give him away. Staying close to the wall and keeping a low profile, he crept toward the scuffling vermin.

There were three of them in total. Sluagh usually traveled in packs. He imagined they did so for protection from the more vicious predators of the underworld - such as himself. Standing in a circle, two of the sluagh watched as the third member of their group scratched and sniffed at the ground. One of them became distracted in grooming its horrid, unkempt mane. Although their profile was almost human the face of a sluagh was nothing but eyes, teeth, hair, and horror. Their too-large eyes gleamed fierce yellow in the darkness and jagged teeth filled their massive frog-like jaws.

Summoning the wraith blade he leapt at the nearest sluagh before the others had an opportunity to react. The sluagh shrieked as the wraith blade pierced it from behind, spraying ectoplasm over its two startled companions. Weakened by its wound, the sluagh's body lost substance, becoming wispy and transparent. As Raziel pulled down his scarf a bright blue glow radiated from the hole where his throat used to be, drawing in the sluagh like smoke from a fire and devouring it whole. His eyes flared.

One of the sluagh tried to attack, but a slash from the wraith blade sent it sprawling in a pool of luminescent green goo. While it flailed on the ground its companion turned and fled farther down the tunnel. Raziel kicked the injured sluagh in the teeth, pinned its head to the ground and finished it with his sword. As the sluagh's spectral form weakened his foot passed through its head like air. Raziel was prepared for this and did not stumble. After devouring it as well, he pulled his scarf over his mouth again and quickly scanned the tunnel for the third. Satisfied, he brushed the ectoplasm off his sternum. _"That's one type of vermin I don't have to put up with."_

He stopped suddenly, startled by a shriek further down the tunnel. Everything went silent for a moment. Then he heard it. ~)

* * *

**AN: **Dear Reviews Lounge, Too,

Yes, Raziel is capable of speech despite missing his throat, tongue, and lower jaw. He does it in all his video games. No, I don't know how that works. Ask Amy Hennig. Yes, he still has hair on his head. It's black. IIRC the explanation the developers gave for this was a combination of "He has magic hair" and "Because he would look stupid bald." Just go with it. :)


	3. Snakes in the Grass

**Snakes in the Grass**

(~_ "Skrrreeeeeeeeeee!"_

A vampire wraith, the apex predator of the underworld. He had faced them before and nearly been destroyed by their soul devouring hunger. They were like him in many respects, the souls of vampires who had died and adapted to feed off souls rather than blood, but whereas he was an agent of his Benefactor, a status which benefited him in many ways, feral vampire wraiths swore fealty to hunger alone. Unlike him, they could not enter the Material Realm. He doubted they retained any memory of their former selves.

Raziel readied the wraith blade. This time he would not meet his rival unarmed.

He continued down the tunnel, not bothering to make himself inconspicuous. Unlike the sluagh, vampire wraiths almost always hunted alone. He felt confident they would meet on an even playing field.

Green ectoplasm coated the sewer where the sluagh met its end. Raziel slowed and stopped to survey his surroundings. Here the sewer forked down two identical paths. _"I know you're hunting me. Come out and fight!"_

No response. Either his adversary had fled, or this wraith was cleverer than most. He waited for a moment before returning his attention to his surroundings. There was no need to wait for his foe. Either it would come to him or he would go to it.

At this junction he could travel left or right or continue straight ahead on the path he had set for himself. Hoping to keep his bearings, he continued in the same direction as before. If he was right he should be headed for the slave barracks.

Most of his clan kept a slave or two close at hand to do with as they pleased, whereas the ones living in the barracks were used primarily for manual labor, menial work, and occasionally, when they disobeyed, as entertainment in the nearby coliseum. Near the end of his rule the coliseum was used almost exclusively to pit vampire against vampire or human against human. At one time his clan enjoyed watching human slaves fight for their lives against wild beasts, but as Nosgoth's animal population crashed this particular pastime died out.

If a slave won enough battles, Raziel turned it into a vampire. He also sought out slaves with unusually high intelligence and resolve, and tested them until they proved themselves deserving of his dark gift. None of his children created a new Razielim without his blessing. Unlike some of the other clan leaders, he preferred to stay closely involved in selecting his clan members. For keeping his bloodline strong, it was a good system. Since so many of his children descended from capable fighters and strategists, he imagined some of them must have survived the purge.

How would he know when he arrived beneath the slave barracks? Each of the slaves' cages had a grate in the floor to drain out the filth. He tried to imagine what such a system would look like from underground. Possibly, it would be similar to the storm drain he entered through. From there he should be able to access much of his territory, including the living quarters and his throne room. Perhaps there he would find some evidence of his clan.

It was foolish of him to become so absorbed in his thoughts. Though he heard the wraith's charge, his reflexes were too slow to deflect the attack and by the time he turned it was already on top of him. He fell onto his back with a stinging green gash across his right shoulder. As he rolled over the wraith turned through the air like a ghostly shark. Somehow these wraiths had attained flight in the Spectral Realm, a skill which for some reason eluded him.

Facing him now, the wraith inhaled deeply, drawing out a thin, white strand of essence from the open wound. As it fed Raziel felt his strength diminish and his thoughts grow sluggish and dim.

Before the wraith could drink too much, he sprang to his feet and sprinted further down the tunnel until the thread snapped and covered the wound with his hand. He turned to face it, sword at the ready, but his knees were already weakening. This wraith was stronger than the ones he fought in the Necropolis. Bigger, too. If it took much more his spectral form might start to dissolve.

The wraith flew at him with a banshee scream. Ducking out of the way, he raised his sword to slash through the wraith's belly as it flew overhead. The wraith corkscrewed, shrieking like a broken violin, and crashed, spurting ectoplasm from its chest. But Raziel's triumph was short lived. In no time at all the wraith was back in the air and coming at him with twice the fury. Knowing better than to expect his foe to fall for the same trick twice, Raziel rolled out of the way as it bore down on him and swung the wraith blade at its side, missing his target by inches.

Now pinned against the wall Raziel found himself with no where to run. As the wraith spun on its tail its wicked claws cut a deep gash through his ribs. Raziel slashed at its face, momentarily blinding it. While the wraith shrieked and clawed at its eyes he clambered to his feet and ran down the tunnel as quickly as his shuddering legs could carry him.

Up ahead Raziel spotted a duct coming out of the wall. Could that be a drain from the slave barracks?

The wraith was quickly catching up to him. He needed to get up there, _now._ Throwing himself at the duct, Raziel screamed as he felt the wraith's claws dig into his back. Clinging to the bricks with his claws, he kicked blindly as hard as he could until it released him. As he wriggled up the cramped tunnel a suffocating fog crept over his mind. The wraith was too large to follow him through the duct, but then it did not need to; it could draw the essence from his wounds without touching him.

Darkness gnawed at the edges of his sight as he reached the other side. Finding himself inside a small box beneath a grate, he groped for the bars but they ran together like ink in water. Raziel fell to his knees. With the last of his strength, he pushed himself up to his full height and dragged himself through the grate. As he collapsed inside the slave cell, the strand of his essence snapped and the wraith let out a horrific scream.

Minutes passed before his vision started to settle. With his strength slowly returning, he crawled out of the open cell and tried to sit up. He rubbed his brow and shifted his fingers through his messy dark hair. That was almost the end for him.

Once his vision cleared he tried to stand up and look around. Though his legs were still shaky, he managed to support himself against a wall. Looking down, he noticed the door to the cell he emerged from had rusted off its hinges and fallen on the floor. Or had it been ripped from the wall?

To his relief this part of the slave barracks seemed only to be inhabited by lost human souls. He caught a few of them to restore his strength. After discarding the wraith blade he noticed something strange about the slave barracks: although the centuries had damaged this area, it was not as decayed as he expected. Some of the cells looked brand new, even refurbished. Hanging from the walls, flags bearing a strange crest representing some kind of building or city replaced the flags of his clan. These new flags were obviously not of vampiric origin. From the moment he saw them he wanted to tear them down.

Sadly, interacting with physical objects was impossible in the Spectral Realm. Not far away Raziel spotted one of the conduits his Benefactor provided for him, used to travel from the Spectral to Material Realm. It looked like drops of water falling into a still pond and creating ripples. Raziel went to it. ~)

The air hummed as Raziel used the conduit to gather matter to himself and form a physical body. The distorted, blue and green world of the Spectral Realm receded, taking its spirits and monsters with it. Back in the Material Realm at last, Raziel turned his attention to the offending banners when he suddenly heard a guttural voice call out, "Brothers! Are you there? Help me!"

Raziel stopped and looked in the direction of the speaker. The voice seemed to come from inside a re-enforced cell. _"I am not your brother. What are you?"_

The creature hesitated. "Melchahim. Please, come closer. Your voice is familiar, stranger. Are you not one of us?"

_"No longer. How did you get here?"_ he replied, approaching the reinforced prison door without fear. Melchiah's children were too frail to break down such a formidable barrier. With the bars sealed with steel plates, escape was impossible.

"Captured by humans. They believed they could force me to reveal the way to my master."

_"Your master is dead."_

Again, the Melchahim hesitated. "Killed by humans?"

_"No."_

He clicked his tongue. "I see. More's the pity. There is a latch on this door. Please, open it. I wish to see your face."

The Melchahim's affability surprised him. He must have been imprisoned here for a long time to be so anxious for conversation. At first he withdrew, suspicious of the Melchahim's intentions. But the latch was too small for him to phase through, only six inches across and a few inches wide and surrounded by solid metal. Despite his distrust of his brothers' offspring, he was intrigued by the prospect of friendly conversation. It had been far too long since he heard a voice free of malice, despondency and oppression. He slid the latch aside.

The vampire inside the cell was indeed one of Melchiah's brood. His head was almost devoid of hair and part of his skull was exposed. His nose and lips had apparently rotted away, leaving him with a somewhat unsettling grin. One of his eyes was also missing. He had replaced it with a gemstone of tigers-eye. The vampire stepped closer to the peep hole and looked him over with his good eye. With him standing so close, Raziel noticed that even his eyelids had rotted away. This made the vampire's expression difficult to interpret. His gaze seemed almost sympathetic but, surely, he must be mistaken.

"Hmm... you look Melchahim but..." He noticed the symbol on Raziel's scarf with raised eyebrows. "Ah! Raziel!" He chuckled darkly, ending in a deep rumble that sounded pleased with itself. "So you are Melchiah's killer. I applaud your bravery."

_"I did him a favor,"_ he said cagily, uncertain what to make of the Melchahim's sarcastic tone.

He snorted gruffly. Visible through his decaying flesh, his throat muscles bounced as he laughed. "No doubt! No doubt. He had too much vanity to do the deed himself."

Raziel recalled the self-loathing in his little brother's voice when he found him hidden away in the deepest chamber of the Necropolis. They had once been on good terms, he and Melchiah. For centuries Raziel had protected the Melchahim from their stronger brothers, who would have tormented them relentlessly if he had not taken them under his wing. But after Melchiah stood by in silence while Kain defiled him, Raziel could not forgive him. Even so he felt a twinge of guilt for slaying his youngest brother. As he left the Necropolis, the knowledge that Melchiah had wanted this gave him excuse to absolve himself.

This brought up a puzzling question. He cocked his head at the Melchahim. _"So why did you protect him?"_

"He was my sire," he said simply. Raziel understood. A putrid sigh hissed through the Melchahim's petrified grin. "So much has changed, Raziel. The other clans grow stronger while we grow weaker with each passing day. They have forgotten us, you know. Even Zephon no longer cares to raid our territory. We are not worth the effort. Now that Melchiah is dead the humans will soon wipe us out. They have been using these ruins as a base of operations to invade the Necropolis. This is just as well. There is a plague afflicting our human slaves. Soon we will not have enough blood to feed ourselves. At least this way, we might not starve. I see you have suffered as well. It is good to speak to you again."

_"I do not know you."_

"I am Harold." He paused, awaiting Raziel's recognition, and looked away sullenly. "I suppose you wouldn't remember me. I was young when we last met, beneath your notice. I was going to ask you to help me get out of here but, of course, now that I know you have killed my master, I will have to kill you."

_"And you think you can do that?"_ Raziel teased. He did not know whether to take Harold seriously.

He laughed, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of such a question. The sound of Harold's laughter was beginning to grow on him. It was a sincere laugh, something he had not heard in a long time. "Heavens no!" A flap of skin came loose from his skull and he smoothed it back down as he cleared his throat. "You are obviously more durable than I. I so despise this body, but I do not wish to go quietly into darkness. Suicide is the coward's way out."

_"Fighting me is suicide."_

Harold shrugged. "That's your opinion. You would grant me an honorable death, wouldn't you?"

For the first time since his exit from the abyss Raziel felt himself hesitate. He had killed many Melchahim on his way through the Necropolis and thought nothing of it, but he liked Harold.

"Nothing personal, you understand. Having sacrificed so much to protect my master, I would be a hypocrite not to fight you. There is no point in returning to the Necropolis to die slowly with the others. You would do me a kindness."

_"I don't want to fight you, but I see your point. Answer me this: do you know what happened to my clan?"_

He nodded. "If I answer your question, you must promise to fight me once we escape."

_"I give you my word."_

This pleased Harold. Though he had no lips, the corners of his eyes expressed a genuine smile. "After your execution, Charon took over leadership of the Razielim. He declared war on my clan. Not the sort of war you fought with Dumah and Turel, a real war. He actually intended to kill Melchiah. Naturally, our master begged Kain to intercede." He wiped his face with his arm and turned to one side, looking at him indirectly. "Kain sent Dumah. In a single night, Dumah's army wiped out your clan. They are all gone."

_"That's impossible! My clan could not be wiped out so easily!"_

"I'm sorry. It is true."

_"No, you're lying."_

Harold lowered his gaze. As he had no eyelids, his lowered brow gave the effect of a glare. He threw his arms in the air. "For what? To torment you?"

_"I don't believe you. Kain put you up to this, didn't he? He doesn't want me to find my clan - he's afraid!"_

"You've lost your mind." He shook his head in disgust, causing his skin to come loose again. He brusquely patted it down.

Raziel beat his fist against the door. _"I want the truth! You will rot in here until I get it."_

"The truth..." Harold harrumphed and fixed him with a measuring gaze. Again, that smile. "I think you landed on your head when Kain threw you into the abyss. What I wouldn't give to have seen the look on your face when your beloved maker tore the bones from your wings."

Engulfed by rage, Raziel attacked the door with a scream. Harold laughed mockingly. "You are pathetic, Raziel! You've lost everything: your life, your pride, your clan, and now your sanity. Look at yourself, sobbing like a child!"

Raziel was trembling but sensed what Harold was trying to do. He glared ineffectively at the Melchahim. He wanted to shout at him but his voice was stretched too thin to hold words. He could barely restrain himself from breaking down the door.

"Strange that your return comes at such a late hour." Harold leaned closer, putting his hand against the inside of the door. His tiger-eye winked at him. "Did you not hear your children crying out to you? Or were you indifferent to their anguish? I see the truth in your eyes. How sad. The great Raziel, a coward after all."

Raziel did not smash the lock on Harold's cell. He did not bash in the door and impale him with the wraith blade. Something else did it, something dark and driven mad by pain. As Harold howled with the wraith blade stuck through his chest, all of Raziel's senses were consumed by this inner darkness. Whether the screams he heard belonged to Harold or himself, he could not tell and did not care. At that moment he would have destroyed all of Nosgoth out of pain alone. Not to silence it, not even out of spite, simply because someone needed to pay.

Lightning crackled across the blade and burned Harold's chest black. White-hot light sliced through his body, reducing it to ash. As the ash crumbled Harold's soul floated in mid-air, disoriented and exposed. Raziel lowered his cowl and devoured it without a second thought.

He heard the pounding of feet coming down the hall. The vampire hunters were coming.

Good.

...

He had killed them all. Seven in total. Their blood now bathed the floor in red. Incapable of movement, he stood stone still until the shock of all that had transpired began to subside, chilling him to his very soul.

Lies! It was all lies, it had to be!

He stumbled forward, making for the exit with the ruined skin of his wings flapping behind him. A terrible realization struck him and he faltered. The humans had altered his territory. Whatever evidence of the purge remained they had disposed of it. Unless!

Four of the old slave cells had been transformed into a large storage room. Raziel threw himself inside and tore through the boxes and shelves, throwing items to the floor if they had no use to him.

They must have kept something. Something they would want to study, to learn vampiric weaknesses - a piece of armor, some old scrolls, a weapon, a scrap of cloth - something!

A bundle of maps! Maybe these could be useful. He spread one over a chest and frantically studied its markings, inadvertently smearing the parchment with blood.

The Necropolis. He had already been there once and found nothing. He swept it aside angrily and opened the next one.

Yes! This was a map of his territory! It wasn't exact, clearly drawn by human hands. Apparently these humans only colonized a fraction of his city. There might still be something left to discover.

Ceasing upon an empty satchel, Raziel rolled up the map and stuffed it inside. He threw the bag over his shoulder and quickly checked to be sure his wings were not caught under the strap. He might still need them.

According to his map, there were other human encampments near the old slave barracks. He would need to pass through them to reach the unexplored portions of his territory. The vampire hunters might already be aware of his presence. _"No matter,"_ he said to himself. _"I'll find my clan and damn the cost. When I have them, I'll wipe this filth from my land!"_

As he approached the exit a slab of stone scrawled with markings caught his eye near the gate. He almost walked past it, but something made him stop. The stone slab seemed to have been recovered from another part of his territory, perhaps part of a crumbling building, and bore a long list of names. It appeared to be a memorial of some kind. Here is what it said:

In memory of our brave ancestors,  
who escaped the vampires' tyranny  
and founded the new country of Mankind.

ALTERIUS NON SIT QUI SUUS ESSE POTEST

_"What is this?" _

THE HUMANS YOU SLAUGHTERED WERE THE DESCENDENTS OF YOUR CLAN'S SLAVES. THEY ESCAPED THIS CITY DURING THE PURGE AND ERECTED A NEW STRONGHOLD PROTECTED BY THE WATERS OF THE LAKE OF THE DEAD. NOW THEY WAGE WAR AGAINST THE VAMPIRE CLANS, HAVING FORTIFIED THE PRISON OF THEIR ANCESTORS.

Raziel fell silent. Only a minority of his children were turned before the total domestication of humans under Kain's rule. These humans descended from the same bloodline from which he built his clan. He looked at the human flag hung above the gate and back to the human's memorial. Could these humans truly be...?

Then perhaps he could rebuild his clan after all. These humans had certainly proven their resilience. Now he only needed to find a living Razielim. As a wraith, Raziel no longer possessed the ability to turn humans into vampires.

Would his Benefactor allow him to restore his clan after Kain was dead? As much as he resented his brothers for allowing his condemnation, he still believed there must be some nobility left in the vampire race. If it existed, surely he would find it in his clan. However, his Benefactor saw all vampires as a cancer on Nosgoth. Raziel believed It had far grander, more destructive plans for him than merely killing off Kain and his brothers, but regardless of what his Benefactor thought about him, Raziel had no intention of committing genocide.

Finding these thoughts too preoccupied with the future, Raziel left the monument in peace. There might yet be hope.


	4. The Betrayers' Web

**The Betrayers' Web**

_Nosgoth, 500 years earlier  
The night before Raziel's execution_

Ithuriel circled his master. Standing before the fire pit, Raziel's wings glowed brilliant orange like a phoenix. Raziel watched him curiously. Each of his captains seemed intent on inspecting his wings the moment he unfurled them. Out of respect, they kept their hands to themselves. Ithuriel, having been occupied fighting Dumah's forces in the ruins of Stahlberg, was the last of his captains to see them. His victory there allowed him to secure some relics from ancient Nosgoth, which he had added to the library in Raziel's territory. With the state of change rapidly approaching Ithuriel and the other captains, he had returned home to rest and prepare for the trial ahead.

He stepped back and Raziel folded his wings. "They're magnificent..." he said, pausing to drink blood from his goblet."I'm not sure how we'll manage to protect them in battle. When you return tomorrow, I'll have my master armor smith take a look at them."

"I think agility is more important," said Alexander, sitting near the fire. "If you look at a bird, its bones are quite brittle. They need to be. Otherwise, they could never get into the air."

"So you're saying I should alter my combat style," Raziel inquired. Alexander nodded.

"I believe it would be a better approbation of your resources. You're already agile."

Though the youngest of his four captains, Alexander was by no means a child. He might be one of the most intelligent of his children. After becoming a vampire, Alexander acquired a morbid fascination with death that led him to dissect numerous beasts. Of course, he did not become a captain because of his knowledge of anatomy, but on this matter his input was duly appreciated.

Ithuriel respectfully disagreed. "A little armor may go a long way. Perhaps a little bit of steel around the joints, where you're most vulnerable. You wouldn't want to get crippled by an arrow."

"He'll be moving too fast for that," Charon spoke up across from Alexander. He leaned back with his arms stretched over the back of the lounge. "You have to think about the applications of our master's new evolution. Wings are best used for maneuverability, not combat."

"Well, it's always best to be prepared."

Raziel sat in his chair. He leaned forward slightly, leaving room for his wings. As much as he liked this chair he was starting to consider cutting the back like a horse-shoe so that he could assume a comfortable, relaxed posture, like Charon, without smothering his wings. "What do you think, Warin?"

Sitting forward next to Alexander, his chin propped on his thumbs, Warin lowered his eyes for a moment and shrugged. "I'll wait and see what happens to the rest of us."

As they all knew, the dark gifts passed down from clan leaders to their offspring were not always as potent. Their wings could be smaller, useful only for gliding. The rest of them - Ithuriel, Alexander, Charon, and Raziel - liked to hope this dark gift would be inherited in full. With the time of change only a week away for Raziel's eldest children, they would know soon enough. Raziel nodded, understanding.

He reached for his blood chalice. The others leaned forward expectantly, sensing the change in the room. Ithuriel made his way around the outside of the fire pit and took his seat beside Charon. Raziel smiled. "Let's hear about your conquest, Ithuriel."

...

_Present Day_

Home was not as he remembered. What once was a library of marble stone, the humans had perverted into a fortress. Their flags waved from the columns like scars. Littering the steps, the corpses of Dumahim, Melchahim, and other creatures Raziel did not recognize, but presumed to be vampires, hung grotesquely displayed on pikes. The walls of the library were desecrated with human markings proclaiming their superiority over the vampires they hunted. Raziel could hardly stand to bare the sight.

These walls once held thousands of scrolls of Nosgoth's history, many written by vampire hands: maps, charts, works of art, and sheet music. There were even copies of the star charts he had made. He could almost smell the parchment.

Only the foremost portion of the library was used by his clan. The rest belonged to him and his captains: Charon, Warin, Ithuriel, and Alexander. Before a battle, or sometimes simply to get away from it all, the five of them would go into the library and gather in a large room with a fire pit in the center smoldering with hot coals to discuss the topics of the day. The fire pit was the centerpiece of the room, tended to by trustworthy human slaves, and he and his captains seated themselves around it, bathed in its warmth and the glow of brotherhood.

What could possibly remain now? The humans, in their blindness, would have destroyed any documents related to Kain's empire, including the histories of his clan. Though he longed to salvage what he could from this defiled tomb, his true quest bid him to move on. Here, only ashes remained.

The hope he felt leaving the slave barracks had abandoned him completely. This portion of his territory seemed to have fared even worse than what he saw on his way to the square. Signs of violence were everywhere. Not a wall was left unbroken. The humans had done a poor job of repairing the damage with wood and plaster. To make matters worse, the humans relished every opportunity to put their kills on display. None of the gruesome trophies looked remotely like his children; still, he could not bear to look at them for long because they reminded him of his deepest fear.

Curious that these humans kept their distance from him. As he passed the library he sensed that he was being watched. Indeed, he knew of many places where the humans could watch from without being easily observed. Perhaps they did not yet know about the carnage in the slave pens. Or perhaps they were smart enough to know better than to charge into a fight with an unknown enemy. If he left them alone it seemed they would do the same, at least for now. He brandished the wraith blade as he traveled.

Nearing unexplored territory, he noticed alien looking structures clinging to the walls of the city. They resembled spider webs or cocoons, too large to have been built by any insect he was aware of.

At last he came upon the Clan Hall, the seat of his power. This part of his territory was not on the human's map, although it would have made a far more formidable fortress than the library. He could see why they avoided it. The building's was in ruins, leaving him with no clear means of entry, and that strange silk covered the ruins. It was sticky, like spider's silk, but the individual strands were as thick as steel cables and smelled of vampires. He backed away warily. _"There has to be a way inside…"_

Raziel circled the building without any luck. Suddenly something inside the building crumbled and a flock of crows exploded from a hole in the roof. If only he could reach it somehow. The walls were too steep to climb and there were no high areas from which to glide. He cursed Kain for destroying his wings.

There seemed to be only one chance. As he learned during his journey through the Necropolis, the distorting effect of the Spectral Realm occasionally opened new passages to him. A flat wall could bulge in places and become climbable. The Spectral Realm also had the curious effect of rendering him nearly insubstantial, which, if worst came to worse, should allow him to scale the unstable pile of rubble without causing it to crumble. In the Spectral Realm, entry might be possible. Of course, there were drawbacks.

The vampire wraith he encountered in the sewer had been much more powerful than the others. Out here in the open he felt confident that he could take out a single wraith of similar strength. However, once inside, he might find his space limited. And how would he get out? He trusted his Benefactor would not allow him to become stranded.

Raziel's watchers witnessed a strange and unsettling sight. He removed his satchel with undue purposefulness and hid it among the rubble. Then he vanished into a green haze with a wave of his claws, as if he had never been there at all.

…

(~ Through trial and error, Raziel found his way onto the roof through the Spectral Realm. The noise he heard earlier testified that the Clan Hall was rapidly disintegrating into ruin. Fortunately, in this realm, he need not worry about the roof collapsing under his weight.

Peering through the hole in the roof, he spotted a vampire wraith lurking below. It hadn't noticed him yet. Raziel crouched down, the wraith blade quietly glowing.

As a vampire, he preferred to meet his opponents on even ground when possible. Centuries of suffering in the abyss blunted his honor with hatred, yet he found a kind of primal satisfaction in dispatching his foes with callous ease. What he had been forced to endure he would repay tenfold, even to those creatures that had no part in his execution, and he drank the pleasures of revenge like blood. He held no grudge against this particular wraith. However, it was in his way. Its misfortune would be its undoing.

He fell on top of the wraith. Digging his claws into the hood of the bucking creature, he plunged his sword into its back. The wraith's boneless, muscle-less spiritual form offered little resistance. He plunged the wraith blade in a second time before his fore finally threw him. Landing on his side, he rolled to his feet and charged at the vampire wraith, sword poised to finish it. The wraith cowered.

Pleased with himself, Raziel slowed his charge. Never before had he beheld a vampire wraith in this position – hunched on the ground, feebly guarding its face with its arm raised. He thought them to be nothing more than mindless spirits, driven by mad instinct to feed on whatever souls wandered into their territory. He pulled its arm aside and raised the wraith blade.

Beneath the shadow of its hood, the wraith's bright, crimson eyes illuminated the decayed memory of a face. Raziel stopped his attack in shock.

The wraith's claws slashed across his face. Screaming, he leapt back and sliced through his foe with the wraith blade, rendering it immaterial. Sensing its near demise, the wraith shrieked and flew away. He watched it flee, badly shaken by what he had seen.

That wraith had a face. Not the monstrous face of a Dumahim or one of Kain's abominable children; a face that almost reminded him of home. He staggered backward and hollowly explored the wounds on his face. No. It couldn't be. This place was making him insane.

With his foe vanquished for now, he paused to survey his surroundings and quite unexpectedly found himself standing in the hall of his throne room. He had not recognized it at first. The rug was missing as well as the banners of his clan. Crow feathers and excrement littered his floor. Time had completely erased the murals, leaving not a visible trace of paint. A few of the columns had collapsed, though for the time being there were still enough to hold up the roof. His throne, along with the four seats of his captains, had been utterly destroyed. He walked up to them, pausing in front of each to touch their remains, the only way he could come to terms with what he saw before him. Warin, Charon, his seat, Ithuriel, and finally, Alexander.

A flicker of blue caught his attention, a conduit to the Material Realm behind the ruins of his throne. He had been so occupied by his surroundings that he had not noticed it at first. Having no wish to relive his unsettling confrontation with the vampire wraith, he stepped into the conduit and willed himself to return to the Material realm. ~)

He immediately clasped his hand over his nose. The stench of this room was overpowering, a palpable representation of his clan's decay. If he had eyes they would have watered. He ducked down the nearest hall, eager to escape the rot of his throne room. At first he had no idea where he was going. Once he discovered his bearings, he quickly formed a plan.

Locating the war room would be his first goal. If his clan truly perished in a war against the Melchahim and Dumahim he would find evidence of it there, assuming it had not collapsed or been otherwise destroyed. After that he would search the archives. Alexander kept detailed records of his clan's history. These records were unlikely to be of concern to the empire. He held out hope that some might still remain. Finally, he would search the captains' rooms. Hopefully they had not also collapsed.

As he feared, the war room was completely destroyed - only its walls remained. Everything had been taken. Even the table was smashed.

He found the archives in a sorry state. Alexander kept careful track of the clan's growth, the slave population, and other available resources in a highly organized fashion, his meticulous record keeping rendered chaotic by the centuries. Brittle papers littered the floor, many already destroyed. Alexander would have murdered someone over this.

Someone had been through here before. What could they have been looking for?

Maybe they weren't searching for anything. They seemed to have torn the room apart at random, as if for fun. Burying his anger, he searched the room for something valuable.

One of Alexander's slave logs still survived underneath Alexander's work desk. It looked relatively recent, too. His Benefactor said that the human slaves escaped the city during the purge, so this could provide useful clues about his clan's survival. He opened it and felt a thrill of excitement. These dates were not long before his execution. As he scanned the logs a disconcerting quiet fell over him. The first entry after his execution showed that over half the slaves had vanished. This entry was dated much earlier than usual; Alexander normally conducted his census once every six months, unless something profound and dire happened. There was a note: _Zephon. _

Zephon, the second youngest of Kain's brood, a cunning trickster and amoral opportunist. He would have known that the Razielim would be weak while their eldest vampires slept through the state of change. Based on the date in Alexander's log, he guessed that the attack must have taken place during this time. Even though his clan was stronger than Zephon's on an individual level, without their elders and without a leader to inspire courage and impose order his children would have been vulnerable.

One month later, another entry with a similar note: _Another raid. Zephon._

The time between entries shortened dramatically.

_Raid. Zephon._

_100 slaves trade to Dumah. Protection._

_5 missing. Stolen?_

_Raid. Zephon._

The last date in the log was a mere four years after his execution. There were less than two hundred slaves, a pittance. _Not enough… see Charon, urgent._

_"Four years… it can't be."_ Raziel shook his head labouringly.

At its strongest, his clan numbered in the thousands. His children must have decimated greatly to have survived on such meager portions for so long. He could imagine the look of despair on Alexander's face when he took these numbers down. In spite of all this strife he had been a dutiful record keeper. Even his final entry was immaculate. His youngest captain had a gift for numbers and a staggering desire to make them useful. Did he know how much that was appreciated? Raziel closed the log book and left it on Alexander's desk almost as if he expected him to come back to it.

There was a second war room hidden in the archives. He built it as a precaution, in case the empire started to fail. Might Charon and the others have made use of it after his execution? He wondered...

The seam was almost imperceptible. Getting down on one knee, he ran his hand along the wall, searching. Whether the other clans built secret rooms unknown even to Kain he did not know, but as the most loyal of Kain's lieutenants, his master's once-favorite son, he knew better than most how despicable and malicious Kain could be long before his in-just execution. Kain called himself a god. He was no such thing. Raziel recalled how he bragged about his decision to preserve his own life even when he knew it meant condemning the Pillars and all of Nosgoth to centuries of collapse. Once, Raziel had loved him as a father figure. He loved him enough to accept that he could never be fully trusted. That was his fatal error. Now he knew better. Kain could never be trusted, not for an instant, nor would he forgive his master's deceitful nature. After his execution he would not trust Kain to open a door for him.

There's the seam. Now for the tricky part. Following the seam, he counted the number of bricks. Disguised as part of a brick wall, the door formed a four by ten grid. The key to opening it was knowing which four key stones to pull and the door could only be opened by a vampire with telekinetic abilities, since the key stones were too snugly fitted to be pulled out by hand. A faint blue glow surrounded the key stones as Raziel pulled them out. Although his telekinesis was not as developed as Turel or Kain, who therefore made use of more complicated locks, this puzzle was both simple enough to be completed by a Razielim and complex enough to prevent unwanted visitors from even guessing at its existence.

Somewhere, a tumbler rolled and a latch clicked free. Raziel pushed open the door and crawled inside. After passing through a small tunnel he was able to stand again.

Apart from dust and cobwebs, the secret war room was pristine. There were candles still in their holders, weapons, shelves piled with books and scrolls, even a Razielim flag, still flying crimson after all these centuries. This was exactly what he was searching for. From the look of the room, Charon and the others were planning something the last time it was used. Using the side of his hand, he gently brushed the dust off of the map on the table. _"No..."_

A map of the Necropolis, marked for war. Melchiah's lair was one of their targets. So, Charon did intend to murder him. But why? The Razielim and Melchahim had been allies for centuries. He couldn't understand what would drive Charon to such desperation that he would attack a weaker ally. Suddenly, he remembered Alexander's log books.

Four years after his execution his clan was slowly starving to death. He checked the map. According to these markers, Charon did intend to capture Melchiah's slave barracks. Hunched over the table, he raked his claws through his hair in frustration. _"This can't be right." _

Charon should have been able to acquire slaves from Melchiah without resorting to violence. Without the protection of his clan, the Necropolis would suffer terribly at the hands of Melchiah's elder brothers, especially Zephon, who like a god of mischief only participated in the war games when he found himself at an advantage or saw an opportunity to stir up trouble. The Razielim already suffered his antagonism. With a river running through the Necropolis, Melchiah was also at risk from Rahab, who rarely strayed far from his natural habitat. If Charon threatened to dissolve their alliance, Melchiah would never risk it. Would he?

The war games seemed to have turned frighteningly serious since his execution. Petty soldiers sometimes died in their battles, proud warriors going to their deaths, but high ranking vampires such as himself were never in any real danger. Until he saw Alexander's log book, he never would have imagined Zephon would take his raids so far as to push his clan into deadly war with Melchiah. And Kain _dared_ to aid Melchiah, his youngest and weakest child, over the victimized children of his favorite son!? Raziel nearly crumbled under the weight of shame and hatred that bore down upon him at this moment.

_"Is this what you wanted me to find? Misery!?"_

YOU BLAME ME WHEN YOUR TRUE ENEMY STILL AWAITS YOUR VENGEANCE. YOUR BROTHERS' JEALOUSY AND VANITY DESTROYED YOUR CLAN WHILE KAIN WATCHED AND DID NOTHING. THOSE OF YOUR CHILDREN WHO SURVIVED DUMAH'S ARMY RETREATED INTO NOSGOTH'S WASTELAND, WHERE THEY DIED A SLOW, PAINFUL DEATH.

_"No."_ Raziel shook his head, disbelieving. Anger slowed his speech. _"You... would not send me here... unless there was something you wanted me to find. I am... your assassin... am I not? Would you send your assassin on a fool's errand!?"_

I HAVE EDUCATED YOU.

_"I do not need an education! Kain destroyed me. That is justification enough."_

KAIN IS NOT YOUR ONLY TARGET. WHILE HE IS THE CAUSE OF NOSGOTH'S INFECTION, HIS DEATH ALONE IS NOT A SUFFICIENT CURE. I KNOW YOUR HEART, RAZIEL. YOU HESITATE.

Raziel lowered his head, twitching with silent rage and despair. _"My vengeance will not be increased by genocide."_

EXTERMINATION, It corrected curtly. VAMPIRES ARE A CANCER UPON NOSGOTH; THEY EXIST ONLY TO DESTROY AND PERVERT THE NATURAL ORDER. SEE HOW NOT ONE OF YOUR FORMER KIN LIFTED A HAND TO AID YOUR DYING CHILDREN. VAMPIRIC NOBILITY IS MERELY ANOTHER ONE OF KAIN'S LIES. THEY CANNOT BE REDEEMED.

He glanced at the Razielim flag, the physical representation of all his principals, the principals of his clan. Were those a lie, too? _"I don't believe you."_

IN TIME, YOU WILL...

_"You will find I am not so easily manipulated. I am far from finished here."_ His leathery wings rustled as he returned to the map on the table. When he felt satisfied he had learned all he could from Charon's plans for the Necropolis he started taking scrolls from the shelves. Having spent centuries locked in a dry, air tight tomb, these scrolls were better preserved than the ones he discovered in the archives. Among them he found early drafts of an attack plan against the Sanctuary of the Clans, the seat of Kain's power and the place of his condemnation. Apparently, Charon never went through with it. He wondered if it was fear that stayed his hand or Zephon's incessant raids.

Looking at these abandoned plans stirred something within him. He could easily imagine Charon and Ithuriel pouring over the floor plan of the Sanctuary of the Clans, their impassioned plans interrupted by Alexander's quick insights as he spoke out of turn, willfully ignorant of his place in the pecking order. Warin would have stood to one side, arms folded, his input limited to a nod or shake of the head, a cold frown fixed on his hard features. _"Pointless,"_ he hissed, unaware of his trembling voice. He rolled up the scrolls and returned them to their place.

Somehow, he felt grateful that Charon never went through with his attack on the Sanctuary. He would rather his clan perished in a fight for survival instead of charging into a battle they knew they could not win on his behalf. Yet, as he eyed the piles of notes and scrolls, guilt slowly weighed down on him. Was he not at least partly responsible for these deaths?

Raziel snapped out of his thoughts. He chastised himself for allowing his mind to be muddled by emotion and reminded himself that he still needed to check the captains' rooms.

But what possibly remained to be found? A body? A note of suicide? None of his captains' expected him to return. Their situation was hopeless at the end. A frightening sensation crept through his skin, the first piercing touch of something bitter and immense and suffocating. It reminded him of staring into the abyss while Dumah and Turel held his arms behind his back, the paralyzing fear of looking death in the face; the chilling realization that even gods may die. If he could not fight it, it would consume him.

He extricated himself from the secret chamber like a marionette. Never before had he felt so numb, so shell shocked by the thoughts in his head, driven onward only by the need to finish what he started.


	5. Who Will Inherit the Earth?

**Who Will Inherit the Earth?**

Raziel found the captains' rooms in disarray. Everything had been taken, including the bed frames and doors. Emptied of furniture, the rooms looked much larger than he remembered. Worst of all was the unflinching lack of respect shown to his fallen comrades by the other clans, who raided the very seat of his power without remorse, stealing not just necessities but luxuries and personal belongings that should have been of no use to them. When he came to his room, he found that even the star charts he labored over, useless beneath Nosgoth's polluted skies, had been stolen along with everything else. The emptiness consumed him. Standing in this raided tomb, his broken body overflowed with the desire to find the miscreants responsible for defiling his home and crush them in his claws.

Returning to his private room had provided him with a means of escape, however. The balcony had collapsed, leaving him with a large opening from which to leap. He hovered at the threshold.

He felt as though he was looking in on himself from the outside of a window, yet only moments ago his soul shuddered with turmoil. He cycled through flashes of intense feeling followed by bleak moments when his soul became a vacant chamber. At any minute he might fly into a rage or collapse under the weight of profound grief; what happened next seemed as much a matter of chance as of his own will power. His clan territory seemed both a place of suffering, a wounded woman crying out in need of rescue and recompense, and a desolate grave, forgotten, the names of the dead wind stripped from history. Though he wanted to relieve himself from this place of terrible pain he felt compelled to stay, to make this right somehow.

THERE IS A WAY...

He tensed warily at the sound of Its voice. More and more he was becoming aware of his Benefactor's desire to twist his anger for Its own purposes. In some ways Raziel was a willing puppet. He agreed to assassinate Kain and his brethren for their mutual benefit. However, his Benefactor's confessed interest in genocide made him cautious of accepting Its help. _"How?"_

His Benefactor's voice resonated with gratification, singing in harmony with his own bloodlust. FOR CENTURIES, ZEPHON'S SILENCED CATHEDRAL HAS FALLEN INTO RUIN. HE HAS SUSTAINED HIS HOME BY PILFERING FROM YOUR'S. BEFORE YOU LEAVE, YOU MAY ELIMINATE HIS THIEVES.

Was It giving him a choice? He decided not to question. Choice or no choice, the answer was clear to him. _"It will be done."_

Grabbing hold of his wings, he leapt from the balcony and glided a good distance before touching down on the ground. There was no need to recover the map he left on the other side of these ruins. He trusted his Benefactor would guide him with impunity. Though It too had an irritating fondness for riddles, Its desire for death made it a reliable compass under certain circumstances.

Signs of Zephon's clan grew more prevalent as he journeyed deeper into his ruined territory. The alien webs he came to associate with Zephon's brood covered the walls, snaring any creature unfortunate enough to stumble into their trap.

An enormous wall of web rank with death blocked his path. Snared in the trap, several crows hung high up, their bodies barely held together by sinew and horrid silk. Nearer to the ground, humans were snared in the trap as well. Rotting skulls protruded from the Zephonim's cocoons. There were human weapons trapped in the webbing as well, swords and axes too dull to cut the cable-like thread. Raziel drew the wraith blade. With a single slash, the otherworldly sword tore a hole through the webbing without resistance. He widened the opening until it was large enough for him to leap through without catching his limp wings.

If he found himself caught he could simply fade into the Spectral Realm. Physical objects behaved differently on the Spectral Realm; he suspected the sticky properties of the Zephonim's web would be neutralized there.

The moment he crossed the barrier he saw the first of Zephon's children. An hour earlier the creature's appearance would have shocked him, but he was so beyond emotion that it merely disgusted him. The vampire stood between seven and eight feet tall and looked as though it had spent so long on the rack that it became all arms and legs. Two blood red eyes, the only vaguely human features it possessed, glowed bright crimson in the center of it's nose-less face. It possessed no teeth in its tiny mouth, save a pair of grotesque, saber-like fangs. Before the Zephonim guard could recover its senses, Raziel stabbed it through the heart.

Again that wave of energy blazed through the wraith blade like a thunderstorm, searing the Zephonim black and rendering its corpse to a pile of ash. This was the power of the physical Soul Reaver, once wielded solely by Kain. As he consumed the Zephonim's soul, he thought about the poetic justice that such a powerful weapon was now and forever more in the hands of a vampire capable of using it for good. He deserved it far more than Kain ever did. During the short time he had been fused with the wraith blade, the Soul Reaver became more and more a part of him, like another, living piece of his soul. It seemed to share his rage.

This part of Razielim territory had once been the commons area. He barely recognized it now; the buildings were in ruins, stone and other debris littered the streets, and everywhere, the webs of Zephon's clan cloaked the landscape in deadly silk. His soul burned up with hatred and shame. He felt it acutely, not merely an emotional pain but a physical one that seemed to gnaw on his very bones. If he dwelt on it it would have destroyed him.

Darkness slowly enveloped the land as he hunted down every last one of Zephon's dregs. Fledgling or elder, it mattered little. All were guilty in his blazing ethereal eyes. A group of them might overwhelm him, forcing his return to the Spectral Realm, naively unaware that he needed only to recover his strength here and hurl himself back to the Material Realm to resume his assault with the same callous determination. As his body gathered matter anew, his new form cleansed itself of the blood from his previous assault.

This was nothing like the massacre in the slave barracks. Raziel felt more in control of his actions than he ever had; methodical, ruthless, fueled by hatred burning colder than the grave. The throaty screams of the Zephonim knocked against him like waves smashing against cliffs at sea. Their clawed hands groped at his wings, begging for their lives with animal voices that meant nothing. Their arachnoid faces elicited no sympathy.

Hours later, the Zephonim vanished into the oppressive sheet of Nosgoth's night. His new body took no notice of the punishments he reigned upon it, when as a living vampire even he would have begun to feel fatigue after so much endless fighting; each time he re-emerged from the Spectral Realm, he emerged fresh. Only his mind registered the toll.

His thoughts existed in two-dimensions: locate the stragglers, kill them. Make them suffer their just rewards.

The wraith blade glowed fierce fox-fire blue in the Material Realm, illuminating his broken body in its ghostly light, and his eyes burned unforgiving white. There were others here. He could sense them. Just a few more and he could rest.

Coming to a cul-de-sac bordered by rubble and webs, he came across an extinguished bonfire, its coals still simmering red. Raziel stood in the center of the camp and carefully studied his surroundings. The webs rustled. He shifted into a fighting stance, the wraith blade brandished in front of him. _"I know you're here. Come and meet your death."_

Something answered him. It spoke with a high-pitched hiss. "You should save your strength for my master, wraith. Lord Zephon likes his prey alive and kicking."

Raziel looked up. Hanging upside-down from the webbing, an enormous Zephonim with four long, ugly arms taunted him from beyond his reach. He walked to one side should it decide to drop on him. Based on the creature's unique appearance, he presumed it must be one of Zephon's most ancient off-spring. The yellow sash around its chest indicated its status as one of Zephon's captains. What a treat. _"How do you know I plan to kill him?"_

It wagged its finger at him. "That is none of your concern. I know who you are and what weapon you bear, but your vengeance shall not visit me while I stand beyond your reach."

Raziel swung the wraith blade menacingly. _"Then come down and fight me!"_

Zephon's captain grinned a gruesome grin. Translucent green spittle dripped from its nearly toothless mouth. "Unlike you, I do not have a death wish. It is more desirable to live to fight another day than to die at the hands of an overpowering foe. That was the folly of your clan. Allow me to enlighten you: it is not the strong who survive at the end of the world nor is it the righteous. Those who crawl in dark places, who willingly tread the loathsome paths left barren by the arrogant and vain, snatching at the glint of opportunity, picking over the carcasses of fallen heroes - _we _are the victors."

_"You will not smile so after I've consumed your master's soul."_

"Do not congratulate yourself on the deaths you have caused. They were but a trifle of our true number. While the other clans slowly die off we thrive on their spoils. Destroy my master, if you must; it will accomplish nothing. His body is infirmed, he can no longer adapt to this changing world, we will fare better without him. Despair, Raziel! Your revenge is pointless." With that the captain climbed into a tunnel suspended from the ceiling and disappeared into the silken labyrinth of its own making. Below Raziel circled madly, desperate to find his own path of entry. After nearly an hour of searching, sensing no more Zephonim in the area, he reluctantly abandoned his quest.

As he traced his path back through the ruined commons he passed the charred and bloodied remains of Zephon's children with no sense of accomplishment. The home he saw before him did not mend itself with the blood of his enemies. Neither did it relieve him of his sorrow. Now that no foes remained to block his path, he felt a chilling lack of purpose, leading him to question why he came in the first place. His pace slowed unconsciously. Though he hated it here he knew that leaving would not relieve him of these burdensome emotions and found precious little reason to hurry. No matter what he did next, the outcome would remain the same. He was alone.

But perhaps, not as alone as he first thought. Flickers of orange light penetrated the ruins of the commons area and in the distance he heard the clinking of armor. Clambering up a pile of rubble, he strained to get a better view. As he reached the top an arch of flame shot into the air, igniting the Zephonim's webs. Raziel staggered. _"What in hell!?"_

What was that? Some kind of magic? There was no time to think about that now. As the flames ate away at the webbing, Raziel became gripped by irrational fear. Though the commons were already damaged well beyond repair he could not bear to see them further defiled by the humans' fire. With the wraith blade blazing on his right arm he sprinted toward the source of the flames, heedless of the danger. The glow of the wraith blade made him an easy target in the darkness.

"Here it comes! Ready your cross-bows!" shouted a human lookout. Raziel spotted them; four humans standing on the second floor of a crumbling commons house, three of them wielding cross-bows and the forth holding a torch. With a good jump he could reach them.

A steel tipped arrow pierced his right shoulder as a second flew past his head. The third stuck him through the chest with enough force to break his sternum. Too late he realized his mistake. Letting his emotions get the better of him, he charged into enemy territory without knowing their numbers and without subterfuge. He toppled to one knee, catching himself with his left hand, panting like a rabid beast, hurting but far from incapacitated. They fatally mistook him for an ordinary monster and aimed for his heart. As his vital organs had long since ceased to function (or in some cases, exist), these arrows had the effect of slowing him down - but not stopping him.

He heard the others closing in on his position in an unhurried fashion and took advantage of this moment to evaluate his foes. Lifting his head a fraction, he saw that the ones in the front wore heavy armor and carried cutting weapons whereas the archers wore only cloth and leathers. The humans had made a mistake, too. They had never before fought a creature like himself; they were underestimating him.

Throwing himself forward with his arms and springing into the air, he caught the ledge of the second floor and flung himself up with ease. One of the archers fell backwards in shock, nearly dropping his cross-bow. The other three tried to back away but not before Raziel sliced one of them open with the wraith blade. The human's fragile body split open, torn apart by supernatural forces. Shouts of shock and horror erupted from the onlookers, underscored by Raziel's fluttering wings and the distant crackle of flames.

Having already loaded his cross-bow, the second human aimed and fired, sending an arrow through Raziel's ribs. Though his material form weakened from these injuries, they did not have the same devastating effect as they would on a living vampire. Without pausing a second, he grabbed the offending human by the throat and plunged the wraith blade through his chest. No sooner had he dispatched this human than he felt a sword cleave into his shoulder from behind. He spun around, knocking the third vampire hunter over the ledge onto the hard ground below. That left only the torch bearer, who was now making a break for a ladder.

Raziel was almost on top of him when an arrow shot through his eye-socket. He screamed in surprise and staggered back. There were a few humans armed with cross-bows stationed at the base of the ladder the torch bearer ran for, though he only caught a glimpse of them before they fired. He had not expected them to be so coordinated. His first attempt to remove this arrow only caused him further agony. He finally managed to pull it out, but doing so only did more damage to his already wounded head. Just as he pulled it out another arrow embedded itself in its chest as two more flew past him, one of them ripping through his wings, apparently from the ruins across the street. It seemed he had under estimated their numbers badly.

He ducked behind a pillar and quickly discarded the wraith blade. It had become a liability and he felt more than capable of finishing these humans off with his bare claws, even in this weakened state. His material form leaked ectoplasm like a wet sponge.

Some of the humans were now climbing up the ladder. Though he hoped to use this time to reconsider his options, he now needed to make a move immediately. Leaping to the top of the pillar, he threw himself from it's peak and used his wings to glide to the adjacent building. As he expected, the archers standing there were too shocked to fire. Letting go of his wings, he landed on one of the archers, smashing his head into the hard stone floor before turning on the others. He knocked one away with a punch hard enough to shatter bone and gnashed another's throat with his claws while the vampire hunter fumbled ineffectively with his cross-bow. Spotting movement out of the corner of his vision, he spun to face -

_THUNK!_

Something heavy struck him hard in the chest. He fell through the air and hit the ground with enough force to shatter two of the arrows in his chest. He tried to stand but found himself tangled in some strange material that was both light and strong. This was not one of Zephon's webs. It was a net of some kind, designed by human hands for the express purpose of snaring vampires. The net smelled faintly of gunpowder.

Raziel screamed in frustration as he tore at his bindings without effect. The net appeared to have been fired from some kind of mechanism. There was no way he could have avoided it. His struggles slowly ceased. He allowed his head to fall against the ground. What was the point of all this fighting? He should simply accept defeat and let the humans finish him off so that he could return to the Spectral Realm and forget this awful place. Let the humans burn it to the ground; it would make no difference.

As his body went limp, found himself staring at the intricate weaving of his trap. Even at the dawn of the empire, when Kain's armies regularly clashed with human vampire hunters, Raziel had never experienced anything like this. Knowledge of firearms should have been erased from human memory over a thousand years ago and yet these humans - the descendents of Razielim slaves - had somehow rediscovered it in the centuries following his execution. Raziel was dumbfounded.

The vampire hunters slowly closed in, weapons at the ready. Looking around him, he noticed one of the humans carrying a device resembling a rifle with a lit flame on the tip. The human carrying it wore an odd kind of mask. Though their weapons and armor were crudely designed, no doubt melted down and re-assembled from their vampiric counterparts, these devices were obviously quite effective. If the humans he encountered in the slave barracks were this well armed and coordinated he could not have dispatched them so easily. Rather than being furious at his capture (only momentary, of course), he found himself unexpectedly in awe of these crafty mortals. Even despair faded to a mere shadow on his mind.

"What sort of monster is this?"

"Stay back!"

"I've never seen anything like it..."

"Look at it's flaming eyes!"

"I say _stay back!_ It's some kind of demon."

Oh, if only they knew.

His material form shuddered involuntarily as one of the humans approached. Holding himself together on this plane now required most of his concentration. It felt a little like starving. He felt compelled to let go, to give himself up to the pull of the Spectral Plane - but he resisted. He wanted to see what they would do next. If they chose to kill him it would be of no consequence. Dying here was not dying at all, merely a transition. He did not feel afraid.

Clad in heavy armor, the human pointed a sword at his chest, as if it would do him more harm than four steel tipped arrows could. Over his armor he wore a sea-green tabard bordered with white and gold bearing the same symbol Raziel saw on the flags hanging in the slave barracks. A familiar motto surrounded the crest:

ALTERIUS NON SIT QUI  
SUUS ESSE POTEST.

"What are you, creature?" the vampire hunter demanded of him, pressing the tip of his sword into Raziel's chest. Raziel glared up at him but the man neither flinched nor broke his gaze. He could smell the man's fear, though he did not show an ounce of it to the world. This must be the vampire hunter's leader. If not, he was certainly someone of high rank.

Raziel studied the words on the tabard and allowed them to sink into his mind. He never considered them before. The monument the humans constructed for themselves at the slave barracks seemed too self-congratulatory to be worthy of his interest. Now, however, he saw them in a different light. These humans were not rats fleeing a sinking ship as he first thought. Their eyes gleamed with a familiar ambition.

He realized they must have followed him here from the Clan Hall. After he cleared a path for them and set chaos upon the Zephonim scavengers, it would have been a simple matter for these humans to charge in, pick off any stragglers, and begin clearing a path through the webs by fire. How clever. Centuries ago, the human who now held him captive could have earned the privilege to be his son. This realization carried with it a profound tragedy.

The human pressed the tip of his sword into Raziel's chest, making him hiss and bringing him back to the present. He grabbed the blade with his clawed hand in protest and chuckled bitterly at the irony. He could have told them what and who he was: a ghost, their king, a memory. It all sounded so melodramatic.

The human quickly withdrew his sword and pointed it between his eyes instead. Up so close, he recognized the craftsmanship and pride that forged this blade. If he had stopped to inspect the weapons of the humans in the slave barracks he might have known better than to underestimate them.

These humans did not merely survive in the wreckage of Nosgoth. They _thrived _as if born to thread the needle and though they scavenged on the ruins of his fallen kingdom they carried themselves with dignity - or the desire to have dignity - such that he could no longer look upon them as mere cattle; still animals, certainly, but the difference between them and their ancestors was the difference between the timber wolf and the stray mutt.

"Answer," the human barked. Although he did not take kindly to being barked at, he had already suffered too much humiliation and disappointment to feel insulted. He felt ready to give in. They had earned their pardon.

Tired of these empty threats, his soul exhausted, he sighed and shook his head as his body slipped into the Spectral Realm. The vampire hunter recoiled, startled._ "Nothing,"_ he answered dryly. His voice hung in the air like the whisper of an echo as his soul retreated home.

(~ As the world sank into a sea of blues and greens and white flame the arrows and net that held him evaporated into nothingness. Raziel slowly got to his feet, checking his surroundings. The humans had now vanished. In the distance, a pack of sluagh hunted disoriented souls through the ruins of the commons, ignorant of his presence. Raziel watched them in silence for a moment.

Without a living Razielim to pass on his bloodline, he had no way of restoring his clan through these people. The Razielim quietly passed into history. With the vampire hunters in control he felt confident the Zephonim would not be able to re-take it. It was a small, unintentional victory, and a bittersweet one at that. To leave them in peace, to relinquish what had once been his home to creatures he never considered more than animals, only reminded him of the horrible truths he had uncovered. But they had earned it nonetheless.

Alterius non sit qui suus esse potest.

_Let no man be another's who can be his own. _~)


	6. A White and Soundless Place

**THIS CHAPTER EDITED 3/25/13**

* * *

**A White and Soundless Place**

_500 years ago_  
_The day of Raziel's execution_

On the morning of his execution, Raziel bathed in oil. He used a slave to wash his wings and had to snap at her for being too rough with her hands. His wings were quite sensitive. Though he was sure she did not mean to cause him any discomfort, he needed to be firm with her lest she think herself invincible.

After his bath she helped him into his pauldrons and strapped them to his chest. She smoothed his crimson sash with her hands and made sure it was the proper length. She then brought him his gold plated boots, freshly polished by another of Raziel's slaves, and his leather gauntlets. She was a good servant, he thought; inexperienced, eager to please, a little clumsy at times, but with the right training she would grow into it. She had a good attitude about her, too. He never heard her complain. When he told her to smile, she smiled like a sprite.

Charon stopped by for a short visit about an hour before Raziel's departure. Raziel invited him to accompany him to the Sanctuary this time, but Charon politely declined. He needed to accompany Ithuriel to meet with Captain Basira of the Dumahim about a bet she refused to pay involving the battle of Stahlberg. When faced with the two of them she was sure to pay up. Raziel considered ordering Warin to go in Charon's place so he could have a companion for this trip. However, Charon looked to be itching for a fight, and Raziel admitted that clan meetings often dragged on much longer than they should. Despite his age Charon never developed that kind of patience. Besides, this confrontation with Basira could make for an amusing story.

At the Sanctuary of the Clans, Raziel was the last to enter. Seated on his throne beneath the corrupted Pillar of Balance, Kain posed lackadaisically with the Soul Reaver, turning the blade by the hilt. The other lieutenants, Melchiah, Zephon, Rahab, Dumah, and Turel stood around him in a semi-circle, awaiting their eldest brother. They had all heard that Raziel had passed through the state of change early. None of them knew what gift he had been given. As he stepped into the light, Kain leaned forward on his throne.

Raziel glanced to his left at Dumah and smirked faintly at his reaction to seeing his wings for the first time. This would add insult to injury after his defeat at Stahlberg. Going down on one knee, he bowed respectfully before Kain. Then, one at a time, he unfolded his wings and threw them into the air. The room went quiet. Raziel lifted his head, his expression purposefully calm, and looked to see his master's reaction. His eyebrows lifted, catching a glint of something in his master's eyes. Kain rose, leaving the Soul Reaver beside his throne, and met Raziel in the center of the Sanctuary.

He held his head high and stood perfectly still for his master's inspection. However, as Kain circled him, he felt a slight tightness in the back of his throat. Nerves, he supposed. As Kain touched his wing he flinched in surprise and cast him an annoyed look before he remembered his place. Kain was the first being to touch his wings without permission - and probably the only one who could do so without a severe reprimanded. He looked away, his lips curled.

_CRACK!_

His back exploded in pain. Raziel screamed and dropped to his knees, dizzied by agony, vision fading in and out. The pain was so enormous that he vomited as he tried to stand. His mind became a haze of confusion.

When he opened his eyes he saw the raw earth scraping against his knees. His pants were torn, as if he had been dragged for miles, and his back burned. Dried blood caked on his lips and the taste of blood and bile filled his mouth, making him cringe. He remembered watching Kain admiring his new wings and then... agony. Try as he might, he could not move them now. They lay bloody over his back, useless flaps of skin. The realization made him wretch. His stomach was full of coiling serpents.

Blinking the grit and tears from his eyes, he arched his neck to see who was dragging him. It was his two brothers: Dumah and Turel. Kain walked ahead of them. No one spoke or looked at him.

They were no longer in the Sanctuary of the Clans. The pain must have made him black out. He recognized the canyon they were passing through, the well worn path and procession of grim flags. Although he knew their significance his mind refused to comprehend it. As they dragged him he tried to pull his knees under him to stand, but he could not, for his brothers gave him no reprieve. Then he tried to slow them by digging his boots into the ground, but they yanked on his arms and pulled him forward unabated.

"I can stand. Let me stand!" He flashed his fangs at Turel, but Turel would not look at him. Raziel began to feel afraid.

Flexing his shoulder muscles, he lifted himself as high as he could and swung his legs underneath him. With his feet on the ground he tried to pull free of his brothers. Dumah punched him hard in the gut and he crumbled, coughing black blood. They continued dragging him as if nothing happened.

Slowly he came back to his senses. He was accustomed to violence, but not like this; never before had one of his brothers attacked him so pitilessly, without giving him an opportunity to defend himself.

There were others with him, too. He could not see them from here. Melchiah, Zephon, and Rahab marched behind him in silence. He could hear the black robes Rahab wore to protect his sensitive skin from Nosgoth's feeble sun dragging across the ground. It was a death march.

He struggled. "Let me stand! Ahhh!" he screamed as Turel pulled on his shoulder, dislocating it. This could not be happening. In a quiet voice, he begged, "Please, speak to me, Dumah. Turel. Speak to me. Please."

It was no use. They refused to speak or look at him because he had been sentenced to die. He saw this behavior many times before, such as when Charon and Warin dragged a traitor from his clan to the Lake of the Dead. Raziel tried not to tremble. He tried to make himself brave.

"Brothers... if I must die, please, let me die with dignity. I want to stand." They ignored him. He turned to his maker in desperation. "Kain! Kain! _Kain!"_

Kain paid no attention to his pleas. Boiling with shame, he screamed until his throat cracked, "Damn you, Kain! Look at me! Look at me, you fucking bastard!"

But Kain did not look. He did not even twitch. Raziel's chest ached as he gasped for breath. Although he had no need for oxygen, fear convinced his body it needed to breathe, so he breathed like a drowning man fighting a wave. This could not be happening! How could this be happening!? He shuddered, holding back a sob. He could not bear to let his brothers see his fear. But he was so very afraid.

When he was a fledgling, Kain submerged his arm in water up to the elbow as punishment for challenging his authority. Within seconds the cold water flashed to a boil and bled dark red. The sound of his own screams pierced his ears like knives. Kain held him down for a full five seconds; the longest, most horrific five seconds of his thousand year life. When he finally wrenched his steaming hand from the pot the flesh dripped off the bone like wet paste. It took him weeks to recover. He never questioned Kain's leadership again.

Now Raziel heard the low hissing of the approaching falls. He bowed his head and screwed his eyes shut while his whole being howled with outrage at this heinous betrayal. Somehow, his ignorance burned him even deeper. Knowing his crime would not make a difference, for Kain's word was as absolute as the word of God, but though he was about to die, he felt Kain owed it to him to explain why. At the very least, they should have given him time to prepare. He did not want to go to the abyss sobbing like a child. He bit his tongue until his mouth filled with blood.

He gasped in surprise as his knees knocked against the wooden planks of the bridge. His eyes flew open, vision spinning as he beheld the lake falling away from him through the gaps in the bridge. The falls snarled at him menacingly.

As they approached the central platform, Raziel clenched his jaw and swallowed. He accepted that Kain would not grant him the dignity to die on his feet. Nonetheless, he determined to meet his death with stoicism.

Ahead of them, Kain knelt near the edge of the stone platform and looked over the abyss as if inspecting a freshly dug grave. Raziel had been present at other executions. He had never seen Kain do this before. As they neared the ledge he tried to catch a glimpse of his master's expression, but he turned away before he could see and walked out of sight. He opened his mouth and said nothing. There was no use calling to Kain. His master was abandoning him.

The abyss gazed into him. Unable to bear its eye, he craned his head skyward where a flock of birds rode the swells in circles. The wind whistled. His lips quivered slightly. Barely audible above the roaring falls, Kain gave his final command: "Cast him in."

Panic possessed him as Dumah and Turel pulled on his shoulders. He thrashed from side to side, ignoring the pain searing through his dislocated shoulder. At the moment when his knees left the ground he screamed. Then he was falling.

Sheets of frigid air ripped at his hair and tattered wings, fluttering uselessly as he plummeted. The crimson sash bearing his clan symbol beat like a drum in his ear. Did Charon and the others even know what was happening? Would Charon's leadership be enough to guide them through the storm that was sure to follow his execution? Nothing seemed to matter. With the wind slapping against him he almost seemed to float.

As he fell his body angled downward. Falling head first, he plunged into a veil of thick mist. Water vapor singed his face. He closed his eyes and shielded himself with his arms. Though the gauntlets protected his forearms from the blast, as he passed through the veil his chest and throat began to burn. He swore he could hear his flesh sizzling. Or was that his imagination?

Now the howl of the whirlpool filled his senses. He should have hit water, but no, he fell _into_ the vortex - so much deeper and brighter than he ever imagined. All around him the massive currents churned hellishly, spiraling down into the infinite fathoms of the Underworld. The blue-green waters sprayed him with their cold embers and steam issued from his wounds as he fell through the eye of the hurricane. It was like looking into the eye of a tyrant god, ancient and hungry and beyond feeling. Never before had he experienced such insignificance and terror.

A solid wall of water crashed into him from his left side, throwing him so violently that his ribs cracked. Boiling water rushed into his nose and mouth, cooking him alive. The white waters swallowed him up. There was no chance of reaching the surface again, for the current pulled him down with such resolve that all light vanished in the blink of an eye. He tumbled through the burning whirlpool, blind and deaf, and when his soul finally departed its tormented prison he settled at the bottom of the lake like a stone.

Yet this was merely the beginning.

_Present day_

Raziel trudged through the sewers beneath his territory, the wraith blade discarded. He did not want to look at it. It only reminded him of Kain. Here in the Spectral Realm, he was vulnerable to attacks by other vampire wraiths and packs of sluagh. When they attacked he savored the distraction, but their dying screams did nothing to ease the terrible ache growing in his chest. Something was building inside him. When this feeling reached maturity, he was not sure he could withstand it.

He dragged his carcass through the grate and emerged in the main square where his quest began. With no enemies in sight, he headed to a spot where he knew his Benefactor would provide passage to the Material Realm, eager to leave this land of death.

Standing again in the world of the living, he cast his gaze over the deserted square, remembering when this place used to teem with his children. He remembered when these buildings were raised. He even remembered visiting the quarry where his human slaves mined stone to pave the roads hundreds of years ago. He thought of all the hands that had left their mark on this city, human and vampire alike.

Raziel trudged on.

...

Half-suffocated by smoke, the meek dawn crawled over Nosgoth. The faint light settled on a tattered piece of cloth, once proud crimson, rendered muddy brown by the polluted, churning waters of the Lake of the Dead; it lay on the stairs by Raziel's feet, near the flaps of his blighted blue wings. Hunched on the steps, pencil neck bent, he gripped his head in his clawed hands. The ruined Razielim statues cast their shadows over him.

He could go no further. The weight was too much for his tired shoulders to bear.

Few times in his long life had he fallen so hard that he wondered if he could stand again. He had tried to pull himself forward by focusing on all that he had to accomplish, but the plans he made upon exiting the abyss no longer seemed mattered. His claws reeked with the blood of his brothers. What did he have to come home to after all his foes lay dead? A familiar Voice interrupted his melancholy.

DO NOT FORGET YOUR PURPOSE, RAZIEL. YOU WERE RAISED TO PUT AN END TO NOSGOTH'S VAMPIRE SCOURGE.

He screamed,_ "This wretched place can go to hell for all I care! Please... leave me..."_

For once, his Benefactor showed mercy. REST, RAZIEL. REST AND REMEMBER WHO DID THIS TO YOU. KAIN IS WAITING...

Raziel flinched. His hatred of Kain ran deep, yet almost matching that depth of emotion was his longing to return to his station as Kain's right hand, to stand proudly with his brothers in the Sanctuary of the Clans, with the only family he had ever known. Everything he ever worked for, all his trials and accomplishments, everyone he ever loved, everything he ever was, ever could have been had vanished in the blink of an eye and he, standing at the height of his power, had been helpless - so utterly helpless to stop it.

He might have felt some sense of solace if only he understood _why_. Why had Kain done this? What had he done wrong? Had he not served his master loyally enough? To have been utterly destroyed with such capriciousness... his children treated like bastard sons... worse than bastards... the injustice burned through him and once again Raziel felt himself passing through the horrors of the abyss. Though incapable of tears, he shuddered and released a shrill cry. This agony was overwhelming. The shock of resurrection had finally left him, leaving him vulnerable and exposed to the raw, jagged edges of his new reality. This sudden, palpable awareness of total separation from everything he ever knew was intolerable, like standing in a vacuum. The pressure tore him apart.

Hours passed without his notice. The shadows of his clan grew long and the stone floors acquired an icy coldness.

"Caw, caw!"

Crows. He lifted his eyes and stared at the filthy nests they built out of tattered cloth, twigs, and feathers between the feet of the ruined Razielim statue. Like everything else here, these crows clung to life by the skin of their talons. Meanwhile, the Zephonim feasted on the corpses of fallen empires and the sluagh and vampire wraiths of the underworld fed on the results of Nosgoth's strife. Nobility rotted away in a shallow grave.

How could his clan die out when these vermin thrived in his own house? Was he any better than they? Was he not just as ugly, just as debased?

Out of habit he tried to rest his hand against his chin. Finding nothing there, he winced and sharply dropped his hands over his knees, sinking into a quagmire of his own humiliation.

He balled his fists.

Why should he feel humiliation? Was this body not still his, revolting though it was? Should he become like Melchiah, surrender to his shame and cower in the shadows, afraid of his own reflection? No. He could not live that way. He could not live without pride. Kain could not take that from him. His Benefactor - Whatever-It-Was - could not take that from him. Whatever fates or gods or devils may be could not take that from him. He _would not let them._

His shoulders sank. But he was still alone. No amount of self-righteous indignation could change that. Killing Kain could not change that, though it might bring him some momentary satisfaction. He touched his throat self-consciously.

His hand passed through the place where his windpipe should have been and kept going until it found his neck bones. The blue muscles holding his neck together tensed revoltingly when he realized how much he had lost. Not for the first time, he wondered how he could speak like this. He wondered if the rest of him was this hollow. How often it seemed that way. He rested his thumb on the inside of his neck, running it up and down against the bumpy white collum of his vertebrae, counting his bones and letting the paradox of his existence settle over him until... for the first time... he felt... almost...

No. He was still, irrevocably changed, his sense of self cruelly perverted and violated. Like his clan territory, he was reduced to a husk of his former greatness. It hurt. He admitted that it hurt. The ache would probably never cease.

What more could he do than make peace with his suffering?

What would he gain from killing Kain and his brethren? Justice? Yes, justice. Vindication. The dissolution of a failing empire. He liked the sound of that. And what consequences would he face for simply vanishing into the night? Loss of honor, the stain of cowardice: punishments even more intolerable to him than the abyss. At that moment he made a vow. Until his purpose was fulfilled, he would not worry about what would come after. Vengeance would sustain him. If the burdens of his past were too heavy to carry then he would leave them all behind, save one.

Raziel looked at the sash on the ground, the symbol of his clan. That symbol and these hallowed halls were all that remained of his legacy. Though it seemed useless, and he was not normally so sentimental, he still could not bear to leave that legacy behind. It would be like leaving a piece of himself behind. He did not have many of those left.

He stood, carrying the sash of his clan in his left hand. Somehow, this frail piece of cloth survived the abyss for hundreds of years. It traveled with him through the Spectral and Material Realms, as much a part of him as the Soul Reaver. Maybe he was meant to have it, whatever its significance. He would put it on again later, that it might strike fear into the heart of his brother, Zephon, and the rest of Kain's brood. Until then he wanted to feel the breeze against the back of his throat, to come to terms with the things he was missing.

Despite appearances, Raziel did not believe in living for a memory. He could not find hope by honoring the dead. And though he believed the deaths of those who wronged him would serve justice, he did not think his vengeance would put any souls to rest, not even his own. It was his principals that mattered. _Being_ was its own reward.

Standing at the bottom of the steps with the Lake of the Dead ahead of him, he thought of Ariel. He should have been kinder to her. With her long vigil at the Pillars, her centuries of torment as she watched the man she put her faith in betray her time and time again, she was the one being in all of Nosgoth who might understand him. When his journey returned him to the Pillars he would find a way to make amends.

The crows flew ahead of him on black wings. Their coarse voices carried over the land as they sang to one another without shame. The hollowed ruins talked back to them in echos as if glad for conversation.


	7. A Premature Epilogue

**A Premature Epilogue**

No greater pleasure than a fear conquered.

Raziel grabbed hold of the stairs, pushing off of them toward the surface. Although he was not as hydrodynamic as Rahab or his children, his lithe body was surprisingly suited to swimming. The feeling of gliding through water reminded him of flying. As his head breached the surface his cowl fell out of place, exposing his tortured face and protruding fangs to the dark hallway as water poured from his eye sockets. He swept back his sopping black hair and stood knee deep in the frigid, stagnent water to survey his surroundings.

When he tried to pull his cowl over his face it fell again, heavy with water. Raziel snorted in annoyance. Seeing no other choice, he removed the sash and instinctively wrung it out. The trickling and dripping that once made him shudder now merely amused him. Finally he threw the still moist sash around his neck and straightened it snugly. He liked to wear it with the symbol facing forward.

Three of his brothers now lay dead: Melchiah, Zephon, and most recently, his aquatic brother Rahab, from whom he received the gift of immunity to water's burning touch. To experience water as a human might was a wholly new experience for Raziel. After his recent revelations it seemed all the more appropriate.

Water dripped from his leathery wings as he exited the flooded stairwell. To his surprise, he found himself in the underground portion of his clan's territory near the Lake of the Dead. How had he arrived here?

Sorrow filled his heart as he recalled his last foray into this land. At the time, he believed with all his soul that this path would lead him to the last living members of his clan. He gazed down the hall longingly for a moment before turning in the direction of the Sanctuary of the Clans. He had a friend to visit and new questions that required answering.

...

Ages ago, or perhaps less, he had returned to the Sanctuary of the Clans on his way to the Silenced Cathedral where Zephon waited for him. His head and heart had been heavy with loss and a multitude of other troubling emotions. The mistakes he made fighting the descendents of his slaves reminded him of the foolishness of surrendering sense to anger and pain. These emotions could be harnessed for action, yes, but they were volatile, too, and exhausting. He needed to relieve himself of these burdens before he could continue.

Before he began his doomed journey in search of his clan, Ariel had encouraged him to return to the Sanctuary when he had need. He decided to take her up on that. If he apologized to her for his harshness earlier he might gain a friend. For one accustomed to standing with the might of an empire at his finger tips, in this lonely and dying world, one friend could make all the difference.

When he told Ariel what he had unearthed she did not seem sympathetic at first. That was understandable; the man who betrayed and imprisoned her here centuries ago was also a vampire, a member of the same species as the Razielim, although her tenuous sense of compassion still disheartened him. After he told her of the humans that had taken over his territory and his decision to leave his land to them, she became more receptive to his sorrow. It was a sign that he still retained some shred of humanity, she said. Once Zephon was slayed, she asked that he return to her. There was something he needed to see.

At first, he struggled to accept her assessment with grace. It would be some time before he would embrace the enigma of his human self.

Once Zephon was killed, he returned to the Pillars as Ariel asked and followed her directions to a forgotten tomb. She believed what he uncovered there would enlighten him to his true role in this world. He did not return to her immediately after his discovery, as he needed time to think over his revelation, which gave him a much greater shock than Ariel might have anticipated. Now that Rahab too was dead, he did not feel he could put this off any longer.

So once more Raziel returned to the Sanctuary of the Clans. Since Kain abandoned it, the Sanctuary almost felt welcoming, though perhaps that owed just as much to Ariel's presence as Kain's absence. She appeared as soon as she sensed him. _"I visited the Tomb of the Sarafan."_

Ariel drifted about the Pillars. This seemed to amount to an anxious pacing. "Then you know what you are."

_"Yes... a Sarafan priest. It's morbidly fitting."_ The Sarafan Order, a long extinct sect of pious vampire hunters, once ravaged Nosgoth with their bloody crusade. Kain always portrayed them as villains. After witnessing the corruption of Nosgoth and the horrid de-evolotions of his brothers, he was beginning to wonder if their true intentions might have been more noble than Kain claimed.

She turned to him with renewed vigor. "It is a reflection of your true purpose, Raziel. You were re-born to bring an end to Kain's corruption."

_"You mean to commit genocide."_ He sighed, hearing the familiar echo of his Benefactor in Ariel's voice. Although their goals were more or less the same, he regarded Ariel as more than a guide. _"I see no nobility in that, Ariel. If my actions open the way for vampire hunters to destroy the remains of the clans then so be it, but I do not want that many lives on my hands. I will kill Kain and my brothers - along with anyone who stands in my way. The rest I leave to those more fanatical than I."_

His journeys through the clans of his brothers had hardened his heart against them. The deeper he traveled, the less he believed these vampires possessed the barest spark of nobility. Perhaps vampires were a plague, as his Benefactor and Ariel insisted. Even if that proved to be true, he still hesitated to commit to a genocidal course. He would continue to hunt vampires for their souls, but to deliberately wipe out an entire species with his own two hands - that was too much.

Ariel seemed to understand. "One way or another, it will be done."

_"What can you tell me of the Sarafan?" _Raziel tilted his head at her questioningly. Arms folded, she floated around him in her thoughtful way, her sooty robes wafting as if effected by a light breeze. _  
_

"During my time as Balance Guardian, I witnessed the final centuries of their crusade." Although human, the magic of the Pillars sustained their guardians well beyond their mortal years. "The Sarafan served the Circle of Nine. Malek, the Guardian of Conflict, led them since long before my birth. When Malek failed to protect the Circle, Mortanius punished him by binding his soul to his suit of armor and the Sarafan lost it's leadership. Tainted by the stain of Malek's dishonor, their sect lost the Circle's favor and slowly died out. They were noble in their day, though they failed to wipe out the vampires as effectively as Moebius's crusade."

He knew some of this from Kain's tales. However, he never knew that the Sarafan were led by a Pillar Guardian, a little fact Kain conveniently forgot to mention. Armed with this new knowledge, he felt more strongly than ever that the Sarafan must have served a righteous purpose. His brow knitted. _"Why would Kain do this, turn Sarafan priests into vampires? And why can't I remember..."_

The latter question had haunted him for some time. From the night of his first awakening and for years afterward he worried over his forgotten human memories in private. Kain would not have approved of his soul searching. It was not sympathy for humankind that drove him, merely curiosity about himself and his origins. Over the centuries that desire faded, but the taste of forbidden fruit re-awakened a dormant longing for knowledge about his former self.

She hovered in front of him. Only one side of her face was capable of expressing emotion. In it, Raziel saw sorrow. "You and your brothers were dead for a thousand years before Kain resurrected you with his curse. As for the machinations of that man, you know his wicked mind better than I."

_"Indeed I do,"_ he mused darkly. His expression hardened and his ghostly eyes slyly gleamed. _"I'll ask him myself. I'm close now, I can feel it."_

Ariel gestured northward. "Only two obstacles remain. Beyond the cliffs that witnessed your execution, a silent city sits in frozen tableau. Locked in eternal limbo, they await redemption, or release. In the bowels of an inverted clockwork, the tormentor awaits. Be wary, Raziel - those blind with rage are by destiny ensnared."_  
_

If he had lips he would have smiled. _"Must you always speak in riddles? No matter. I understand. What of my other brother, Turel?"_

"He has long vanished from this world."

_"Dead?"_

"That I cannot answer."

He looked away with narrowed eyes._ "Pity. I would have liked to kill him myself."_

She held up her hand, small and delicate and authoritative. He could only imagine the wickedness that would possess a man to kill a woman such as Ariel in cold blood, knowing the hell her death would unleash on Nosgoth. Why the Pillar of Balance would select a man so wretched as Kain to replace her, he might never know. They were utterly different in every way. "Remember my warning, Raziel. There is much at stake."_  
_

_"Your freedom, I remember. I made you a promise, Ariel, and I intend to keep it. Nothing can stand in my way." _He paused thoughtfully. According to Ariel, the Pillars would be healed at the moment of Kain's death, thereby releasing her spirit and allowing new guardians to be born at last. The knowledge that he would never see her again gave him a lumpy feeling where his throat used to be._ "I suppose this is goodbye then. You've been extraordinarily kind to me. I don't know what to say."  
_

The ex-Balance Guardian folded her hands and lowered her gaze. A far away look came into her eye. She spoke quietly, "You will see me again, but I will not recognize you. And you will no longer be so kind."

_"What do you mean?"_ he said, concerned.

She sighed. Though there seemed to be much she wanted to tell him, the words did not leave her mouth. "Know this: the path of your destiny has only begun to unfold..."

As Ariel's spirit faded into the Pillars, her parting words chilled him. They reminded him of something Kain said when the physical Soul Reaver was destroyed. _So it unfolds. The blade is vanquished... and we are a step closer to our destinies. _And now Ariel spoke of destiny, too. What did all this mean? His Benefactor remained silent on the matter.

He shook his head blithely as he turned to go. Nonsense. With his quarry now close at hand, he intended to complete his chosen purpose very soon.

And yet this, too, was merely the beginning.

* * *

**AN: **Special thanks to WraithLoverQueen for following, helping me with chapter four, and feeding my boundless enthusiasm for this series; and to warriorfist for his excellent advice on improving the conclusion. Additional thanks goes out to (in no particular order) MadameGiry25, Edhla, Aiko Isari, Verran, and all the excellent reviewers at The Reviews Lounge, Too! Finally, thank you Amy Henning for creating such fantastic characters and thank you Crystal Dynamics and Eidos for making this series happen (and please give us more!)! For all you newcomers to Legacy of Kain, I hope you enjoyed this story and will consider checking out more of Legacy of Kain in the future; and for all you veteran fans, I hope this story did it justice.

Please consider checking out my other LoK story _Things Fall Apart._ It fleshes out Raziel's friendship with Melchiah and fills in a few holes from this story. Thanks for reading!


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